everYdat 


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►VENTURES'  3 

SAMUEL  SCOVILLEJI^^ 


►  v  W 


©p>  ■&  p.  pil  ptrarg 


^ottl\  Carolina  ^iate  College 

QH6I 
54- 


Date  Due 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 


TWO   ADVENTURERS  —  GRAY   FOX  AND   SCREECH   OWL 


EVERYDAY 
ADVENTURES 

By  SAMUEL  SCOVILLE,  Jr. 


With  Illustrations  from  Photographs 


The  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  1920,  by 
Samuel  Scoville,  Jr. 


Of  the  chapters  of  this  book,  three  have  appeared  as 
separate  articles  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  three  in  The 
Yale  Review,  two  in  The  Youth's  Companion,  and  the 
others,  in  whole  or  in  part,  in  St.  Nicholas,  Good 
Housekeeping,  and  The  Christian  Endeavor  World. 


This  booh  is  dedicated  to  that  brave  and  loyal  ad- 
venturer, who  has  shared  so  many  everyday  adventures 
with  me  —  my  wife. 


N."  C.  ST/ 


9d  4-  ■ 


The  illustrations  for  this  book  have  been  made  from  photographs 
taken  by  Mr.  Howard  T.  Middleton,  Mr.  J.  Fletcher  Street,  Mr. 
William  L.  Baily,  and  Mr.  A.  D.  McGrew.  The  author  wishes  to 
express  his  appreciation  here  of  the  skill,  knowledge,  and  patience 
which  have  made  such  photographs  possible.  In  some  of  those  taken 
by  Mr.  Middleton,  tamed,  caged,  or  mounted  specimens  have  been 
used  as  models.  In  others  he  has  persuaded  wild  animals  to  photo- 
graph themselves  by  various  ingenious  devices. 


CONTENTS 


Everyday  Adventures 

1 

Zero  Birds 

18 

Snow  Stories 

38 

A  Runaway  Day 

59 

The  Raven's  Nest 

73 

Hidden  Treasure 

86 

Bird's-Nesting 

100 

The  Treasure  Hunt     . 

120 

Orchid  Hunting  . 

139 

The  Marsh  Dwellers 

161 

The  Seven  Sleepers 

176 

Dragon's  Blood    . 

216 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Two  Adventurers — Gray  Fox  and  Screech  Owl      .      Frontispiece 

Br'er  Fox  and  Br'er  Possum 4 

The  Singer  of  the  Night — The  Screech  Owl    .        .        .        .  16 

A  Crow  Chorus 25 

Just  Out  of  the  Nest — Young  Red  Squirrels           .        .        .  28 

The  Dear  Deer  Mice 35 

Death-in-the-Dark — The  Great  Horned  Owl   ....  44 

Flyer,  the  Squirrel 52 

The  Long-tailed  Weasel 64 

"  The  Young  Ravens  shall  neither  lack  nor  suffer  Hunger"  82 

The  Jewel-Box  of  the  Wood  Pewee 96 

The  Red-Shouldered  Hawk 104 

Mrs.  Killdeer  at  Her  Nest 108 

Mr.  Flicker  at  Home 126 

The  Mourning  Dove  in  Her  Nest 128 

Pink  and  White  Lady  Slippers 1^6 

The  King  of  the  Forest  —  The  Banded  Rattlesnake      .        .154 

The  Great  Blue  Heron  at  Breakfast 160 

The  Marsh  Hawk's  Nest 1&4 

Lotor,  the  Coon  . 154 

The  Seventh  Sleeper  —  The  Skunk 192 

The  Whistlepig 196 

The  Junco  on  His  Watch  Tower 219 

No  Admittance  —  per  order ,  Mr.  Screech  Owl 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 


For  the  sick  and  the  sorry  and  the  weary  at  heart 
stands  a  refuge  at  their  very  doors.  There  needs  but 
sight  to  the  unseeing  eyes  and  the  unstopping  of  deaf- 
ened ears,  and  the  way  to  the  World  where  the  sweet 
Wild-Folk  dwell  lies  open.  Therein  is  happiness  that 
time  cannot  tarnish,  the  stilling  of  sorrow  and  rest  from 
toil.  Let  him  who  hears  the  call  heed  it  as  he  values 
his  soul's  welfare. 


EVERYDAY   ADVENTURES 

i 

EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

All  that  May  day  long  I  had  been  trying  to  break 
my  record  of  birds  seen  and  heard  between  dawn 
and  dark.  Toward  the  end  of  the  gray  afternoon  an 
accommodating  Canadian  warbler,  wearing  a  black 
necklace  across  his  yellow  breast,  carried  me  past  my 
last  year's  mark,  and  I  started  for  home  in  great 
contentment.  My  path  wound  in  and  out  among  the 
bare  white  boles  of  a  beech  wood  all  feathery  with 
new  green-sanguine-colored  leaves.  Always  as  I 
enter  that  wood  I  have  a  sense  of  a  sudden  silence, 
and  I  walk  softly,  that  I  may  catch  perhaps  a  last 
word  or  so  of  what  They  are  saying. 

That  day,  as  I  moved  without  a  sound  among  the 
trees,  suddenly,  not  fifty  feet  away,  loping  wearily 
down  the  opposite  slope,  came  a  gaunt  red  fox  and  a 
cub.  With  her  head  down,  she  looked  like  the  pic- 
ture of  the  wolf  in  Red  Riding-Hood.  The  little  cub 
was  all  woolly,  like  a  lamb.  His  back  was  reddish- 
brown,  and  he  had  long  stripes  of  gray  across  his 
breast  and  around  his  small  belly,  and  his  little  sly 
face  was  so  comical  that  I  laughed  at  the  very  first 
sight  of  it.  What  wind  there  was  blew  from  them  to 


2  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

me,  and  my  khaki  clothes  blended  with  the  coloring 
around  me. 

As  I  watched  them,  another  larger  cub  trotted 
down  the  hill.  The  first  cub  suddenly  yapped  at  him, 
with  a  snarling  little  bark  quite  different  from  that 
of  a  dog;  but  the  other  paid  no  attention,  but 
stalked  sullenly  into  a  burrow  which  for  the  first 
time  I  noticed  among  the  roots  of  a  white-oak  tree. 
Back  of  the  burrow  lay  a  large  chestnut  log  which 
evidently  served  as  a  watch-tower  for  the  fox  family. 
To  this  the  mother  fox  went,  and  climbing  up  on  top 
of  it,  lay  down,  with  her  head  on  her  paws  and  her 
magnificent  brush  dangling  down  beside  the  log,  and 
went  to  sleep. 

The  little  cub  that  was  left  trotted  to  the  entrance 
of  the  burrow  and  for  a  while  played  by  himself,  like 
a  puppy  or  a  kitten.  First  he  snapped  at  some  blades 
of  grass  and  chewed  them  up  fiercely.  Then,  seeing  a 
leaf  that  had  stuck  in  the  wool  on  his  back,  he  whirled 
around  and  around,  snapping  at  it  with  his  little  jaws. 
Failing  to  catch  it,  he  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  dirt 
until  he  had  brushed  it  off.  Then  he  proceeded  to 
stalk  the  battered  carcass  of  an  old  black  crow  that 
lay  in  front  of  the  burrow.  Crouching  and  creeping 
up  on  it  inch  by  inch,  he  suddenly  sprang  and  caught 
that  unsuspecting  corpse  and  worried  it  ferociously, 
with  fierce  little  snarls.  All  the  time  his  wrinkled-up, 
funny  little  face  was  so  comical  that  I  nearly  laughed 
aloud  every  time  he  moved.  At  last  he  curled  up  in  a 
round  ball,  with  his  chin  on  his  forepaws  like  his 
mother, 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  3 

There  before  me,  at  the  end  of  the  quiet  spring 
afternoon,  two  of  the  wildest  and  shyest  of  all  of  our 
native  animals  lay  asleep.  Never  before  had  I  seen 
a  fox  in  all  that  country,  nor  even  suspected  that  one 
had  a  home  within  a  scant  mile  of  mine.  As  I  watched 
them  sleeping,  I  felt  somehow  that  the  wildwood 
had  taken  me  into  her  confidence  and  was  trusting 
her  children  to  my  care;  and  I  would  no  more  have 
harmed  them,  than  I  would  my  own. 

As  I  watched  the  cub  curled  up  in  a  woolly  ball, 
I  wanted  to  creep  up  and  stroke  his  soft  fur.  Leaving 
the  hard  path,  I  started  to  cover  as  silently  as  possi- 
ble the  fifty  feet  that  lay  between  us.  Before  I  had 
gone  far,  a  leaf  rustled  underfoot,  and  in  a  second  the 
cub  was  on  his  feet,  wide  awake,  and  staring  down  at 
me.  With  one  foot  in  the  air,  I  waited  and  waited 
until  he  settled  down  to  sleep  again.  A  minute 
later  the  same  thing  happened  once  more,  only  to  be 
repeated  at  every  step  or  so.  It  took  me  something 
like  half  an  hour  to  reach  a  point  within  twenty 
feet  of  where  he  lay,  and  I  looked  straight  into  his 
eyes  each  time  that  he  stood  up. 

No  wild  animal  can  tell  a  man  from  a  tree  by  sight 
alone  if  only  he  stands  still.  Suddenly,  as  the  cub 
sprang  up,  perhaps  for  the  tenth  time,  there  about 
six  feet  to  one  side  of  him  stood  the  old  mother  fox. 
I  had  not  heard  a  sound  or  seen  a  movement,  but 
there  she  was.  I  was  so  close  that  I  dared  not  move 
my  head  to  look  at  the  cub,  but  turned  only  my  eyes. 
When  I  looked  back  the  mother  fox  was  gone.  With 
no   sudden  movement  that  I   could    detect,   there 


4  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

almost  before  my  eyes  she  had  melted  into  the  land- 
scape. 

I  stood  like  a  stone  until  the  cub  had  lain  down 
once  more.  This  time  evidently  he  was  watching 
me  out  of  his  wrinkled-up  little  eyes,  for  at  my  very 
first  forward  movement  he  got  up,  and  with  no 
appearance  of  haste  turned  around  and  disappeared 
down  in  the  burrow.  The  watch-tower  log  was  va- 
cant, although  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  mother  fox 
was  watching  me  from  some  unseen  spot. 

When  I  came  to  examine  the  den,  I  found  that 
there  were  three  burrows  in  a  line,  perhaps  fifteen 
feet  in  length,  with  a  hard-worn  path  leading  from 
one  to  the  other.  The  watch-log  behind  them  was 
rubbed  smooth  and  shiny,  with  reddish  fox-hairs 
caught  in  every  crevice.  Near  the  three  burrows 
was  a  tiny  one,  which  I  think  was  probably  dug  as 
an  air-hole;  while  in  front  I  found  the  feathers  of  a 
flicker,  a  purple  grackle,  and  a  chicken,  besides  the 
remains  of  the  crow  aforesaid.  How  any  fox  outside 
of  the  fable  could  beguile  a  crow  is  a  puzzle  to  me. 
All  of  these  burrows  were  in  plain  sight,  and  I  hunted 
a  long  time  to  find  the  concealed  one  which  is  a  part 
of  the  home  of  every  well-regulated  fox  family.  For 
a  while  I  could  find  no  trace  of  it.  Finally  I  saw  on 
the  side  of  a  stump  one  reddish  hair  that  gave  me  a 
clue.  Examining  the  stump  carefully,  I  found  that 
it  was  hollow  and  formed  the  entrance  to  the  secret 
exit  from  the  three  main  burrows. 

A  week  later  I  went  again  to  look  at  the  home  of 
that  fox  family;  but  it  was  deserted  by  them  and  was 


BRER  FOX   AND   BRER  POSSUM 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  5 

now  tenanted  by  a  fat  woodchuck,  who  would  never 
have  ventured  near  the  den  if  the  owners  had  not  left 
it.  Mrs.  Fox  had  evidently  feared  the  worst  from  my 
visit,  and  in  the  night  had  moved  her  whole  family 
to  some  better-hidden  home.  This  was  three  years 
ago,  and,  although  I  visit  the  place  every  winter,  no 
tell-tale  tracks  ever  show  that  she  has  moved  back. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  the  forest  for  adven- 
tures: they  lie  in  wait  for  us  at  our  very  doors.  My 
home  is  in  a  built-up  suburb  of  a  large  city,  appar- 
ently hopelessly  civilized.  The  other  morning  I 
was  out  early  for  some  before-breakfast  chopping, 
the  best  of  all  setting-up  exercises.  As  I  turned  the 
corner  of  the  garage,  I  suddenly  came  face  to  face 
with  a  black-and-white  animal  with  a  pointed  nose, 
a  bushy  tail,  and  an  air  of  justified  confidence.  I 
realized  that  I  was  on  the  brink  of  a  meeting  which 
demanded  courage  but  not  rashness.  "Be  brave,  be 
brave,  but  not  too  brave, "  should  always  be  the  motto 
of  the  man  who  meets  the  skunk.  From  my  past 
experience,  however,  I  knew  that  the  skunk  is  a  good 
sportsman.  Unless  rushed,  he  always  gives  three 
warnings  before  he  proceeds  to  extremities. 

As  I  came  near,  he  stopped  and  shook  his  head 
sadly,  as  if  saying  to  himself,  "I'm  afraid  there's  going 
to  be  trouble,  but  it  isn't  my  fault. "  As  I  still  came 
on,  he  gave  me  danger  signal  number  one  by  suddenly 
stamping  his  forepaws  rapidly  on  the  hard  ground. 
Upon  my  further  approach  followed  signal  number 
two,  to  wit,  the  hoisting  aloft  of  his  aforesaid  long, 


6  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

bushy  tail.  As  I  came  on  more  and  more  slowly,  I 
received  the  third  and  last  warning  —  the  end  of  the 
erect  tail  moved  quietly  back  and  forth  a  few  times. 

It  was  enough.  I  stood  stony  still,  for  I  knew  that 
if,  after  that,  I  moved  forward  but  by  the  fraction 
of  an  inch,  I  would  meet  an  unerring  barrage  which 
would  send  a  suit  of  clothes  to  an  untimely  grave. 
For  perhaps  half  a  minute  we  eyed  each  other.  Like 
the  man  in  the  story,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  one 
of  us  would  have  to  run  —  and  that  I  was  that  one. 
Without  any  false  pride  I  backed  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously out  of  range.  Thereupon  the  threatening 
tail  descended,  and  Mr.  Skunk  trotted  away  through 
a  gap  in  the  fence  into  the  long  grass  of  an  unoc- 
cupied lot — probably  seeking  a  breakfast  of  field- 
mice. 

I  felt  a  definite  sense  of  relief,  for  it  is  usually  more 
dangerous  to  meet  a  skunk  than  a  bear.  In  fact,  all 
the  bears  that  I  have  ever  come  upon  were  dis- 
appearing with  great  rapidity  across  the  landscape. 

But  there  are  times  when  a  meeting  with  either 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Bruin  is  apt  to  be  an  unhappy  one. 
Several  years  ago  I  was  camping  out  in  Maine  one 
March,  in  a  lumberman's  shack.  A  few  days  before  I 
came,  two  boys  in  a  village  near  by  decided  to  go 
into  the  woods  hunting,  with  a  muzzle-loading 
shot-gun  and  a  long  stick  between  them.  One  boy 
was  ten  years  old,  while  the  other  was  a  patriarch 
of  twelve.  On  a  hillside  under  a  great  bush  they 
noticed  a  small  hole  which  seemed  to  have  melted 
through   the  snow,  and  which  had    a   gamy  savor 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  7 

that  made  them  suspect  a  coon.  The  boy  with  the 
stick  poked  it  in  as  far  as  possible  until  he  felt  some- 
thing soft. 

"I  think  there's  something  here,"  he  remarked, 
poking  with  all  his  might. 

He  was  quite  right.  The  next  moment  the  whole 
bank  of  frozen  snow  suddenly  caved  out,  and  there 
stood  a  cross  and  hungry  bear,  prodded  out  of  his 
winter  sleep  by  that  stick.  The  boys  were  up  against 
a  bad  proposition.  The  snow  was  too  deep  for  run- 
ning, and  when  it  came  to  climbing  —  that  was  Mr. 
Bear's  pet  specialty.  So  they  did  the  only  thing  left 
for  them  to  do:  they  waited.  The  little  one  with  the 
stick  got  behind  the  big  one  with  the  gun,  which 
weapon  wavered  unsteadily. 

"Now,  don't  you  miss,"  he  said,  "  'cause  this  stick 
ain't  very  sharp. " 

Sometimes  an  attacking  bear  will  run  at  a  man  like 
a  biting  dog.  More  often  it  rises  on  its  haunches  and 
depends  on  the  smashing  blows  of  its  mighty  arms 
and  steel-shod  paws.  So  it  happened  in  this  case. 
Just  before  the  bear  reached  the  boys,  he  lifted  his 
head  and  started  to  rise.  The  first  boy,  not  six  feet 
away,  aimed  at  the  white  spot  which  most  black 
bears  have  under  their  chin,  and  pulled  the  trigger. 
At  that  close  range  the  heavy  charge  of  number  six 
shot  crashed  through  the  animal's  throat,  making  a 
single  round  hole  like  a  big  bullet,  cutting  the  jugu- 
lar vein,  and  piercing  the  neck  vertebrae  beyond. 
The  great  beast  fell  forward  with  hardly  a  struggle, 
so  close  to  the  boys  that  its  blood  splashed  on  their 


8  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

rubber  boots.  They  got  ten  dollars  for  the  skin  and 
ten  dollars  for  the  bounty,  and  about  one  million 
dollars'  worth  of  glory. 

Hasting  homeward  for  more  peaceful  adventures, 
I  find,  near  the  road  which  leads  to  the  railway 
station  over  which  scores  and  hundreds  of  my  friends 
and  neighbors,  including  myself,  pass  every  day,  a 
little  patch  of  marshland.  In  the  fall  it  is  covered 
with  a  thick  growth  of  goldenrod,  purple  asters, 
joe-pye-weed,  wild  sunflowers,  white  boneset,  tear- 
thumb,  black  bindweed,  dodder,  and  a  score  or  more 
of  other  common  fall  flowers. 

One  night,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  noticed  that  an  ice- 
blue  star  shone  from  almost  the  very  zenith  of  the 
heavens.  Below  her  were  two  faint  stars  making  a 
tiny  triangle,  the  left-hand  one  showing  as  a  beauti- 
ful double  under  an  opera-glass.  Below  was  a  row 
of  other  dim  points  of  light  in  the  black  sky.  It  was 
Vega  of  the  Lyre,  the  great  Harp  Star.  Then  I  knew 
that  the  time  had  come.  We  humans  think,  arro- 
gantly, that  we  are  the  only  ones  for  whom  the  stars 
shine,  and  forget  that  flowers  and  birds,  and  all  the 
wild  folk  are  born  each  under  its  own  special  star. 

The  next  morning  I  was  up  with  the  sun  and 
visited  that  bit  of  unpromising  marshland  past 
which  all  of  us  had  plodded  year  in  and  year  out. 
In  one  corner,  through  the  dim  grass,  I  found  flaming 
like  deep-blue  coals  one  of  the  most  beautiful  flowers 
in  the  world,  the  fringed  gentian.  The  stalk  and 
flower-stems  looked  like  green  candelabra,  while  the 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  9 

unopened  blossoms  showed  sharp  edges  like  beech- 
nuts. Above  them  glowed  square  fringed  flowers  of 
the  richest,  deepest  blue  that  nature  holds.  It  is 
bluer  than  the  bluebird's  back,  and  fades  the  violet, 
the  aster,  the  great  lobelia,  and  all  the  other  blue 
flowers  that  grow.  The  four  petals  were  fringed,  and 
the  flower  seemed  like  a  blue  eye  looking  out  of 
long  lashes  to  the  paler  sky  above.  The  calyx  inside 
was  of  a  veined  purple  or  a  silver-white,  while  four 
gold-tipped,  light  purple  stamens  clustered  around 
a  canary -yellow  pistil.  That  morning  I  wore  on  the 
train  one  of  the  two  flowers  which  I  allowed  myself 
to  pick.  Every  friend  I  met  spoke  of  it  admiringly. 
Some  had  heard  of  it,  others  had  seen  it  for  them- 
selves in  places  far  distant.  None  of  them  knew  that 
every  day  until  frost  they  would  pass  unheedingly 
within  ten  feet  of  nearly  thirty  of  these  flowers. 

Sometimes  the  adventure,  unlike  good  children, 
is  to  be  heard,  not  seen.  It  was  the  end  of  a  hot 
August  day.  I  had  been  down  for  a  late  dip  in  the 
lake,  and  was  coming  back  through  the  woods  to 
the  old  farmhouse  where  I  have  spent  so  many  of 
my  summers.  The  path  wound  through  a  grove  of 
slim  birches,  and  the  lights  in  the  afterglow  were  all 
green  and  gold  and  white.  From  the  nearby  road  a 
field  sparrow,  with  a  pink  beak,  sang  his  silver  flute 
song;  and  I  stopped  to  listen,  and  thought  to  myself, 
if  he  were  only  as  rare  as  the  nightingale,  how  people 
would  crowd  to  hear  him. 

Suddenly  from  the  depths  of  the  twilight  woods  a 
thrush  song  began.   At  first  I  thought  the  singer  was 


10  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  wood  thrush,  which,  besides  the  veery  or  Wilson 
thrush,  was  the  only  one  that  I  had  supposed  could 
be  found  in  that  Connecticut  township.  The  song, 
however,  had  a  more  ethereal  quality,  and  I  listened 
in  vain  for  the  drop  to  the  harsh  bass  notes  which 
always  blemish  the  strain  of  the  wood  thrush.  In- 
stead, after  three  arpeggio  notes,  the  singer's  voice 
went  up  and  up,  with  a  sweep  that  no  human  voice 
or  instrument  could  compass,  and  I  suddenly  real- 
ized that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  one  of  the  great 
singers  of  the  world.  For  years  I  had  read  of  the  song 
of  the  hermit  thrush,  but  in  all  my  wanderings  I 
had  never  chanced  to  hear  it  before. 

Lafcadio  Hearn  writes  of  a  Japanese  bird  whose 
song  has  the  power  to  change  a  man's  whole  life. 
So  it  was  with  me  that  midsummer  evening.  Some 
thing  had  been  added  to  the  joy  of  living  that  could 
never  be  taken  from  me.  Since  that  twilight  I  have 
heard  the  hermit  thrush  sing  many  times.  Through 
the  rain  in  the  dawn-dusk  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Pocono,  he  sang  for  me  once,  while  all  around  a  choir 
of  veerys  accompanied  him  with  their  strange  minor 
harp-chords.  One  Sunday  morning,  at  the  edge  of  a 
little  Canadian  river,  I  heard  five  singing  together  on 
the  farther  side.  "Ah-h-h,  holy,  holy,  holy,"  their 
voices  chimed  across  the  still  water.  In  the  woods, 
in  migration,  I  have  heard  their  whisper-song,  which 
the  hermit  sings  only  when  traveling;  and  once  on  a 
May  morning,  in  my  back  yard,  near  Philadelphia, 
one  sang  for  me  from  the  low  limb  of  a  bush  as 
loudly  as  if  he  were  in  his  mountain  home. 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  n 

No  thrush  song,  however,  will  ever  equal  that  first 
one  which  I  heard  among  the  birch  trees.  Creeping 
softly  along  the  path  that  evening,  I  finally  saw  the 
little  singer  on  a  branch  against  the  darkening  sky. 
Again  and  again  he  sang,  until  at  last  I  noticed  that, 
when  the  highest  notes  were  reached  and  the  song 
ceased  to  my  ears,  the  singer  sang  on  still.  Quiver- 
ing in  an  ecstasy,  with  open  beak  and  half-fluttering 
wings,  the  thrush  sang  a  strain  that  went  beyond  my 
range.  Like  the  love-song  of  the  bat,  perhaps  the 
best  part  of  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrush  can  never 
be  heard  by  any  human  ear. 

It  was  the  morning  of  June  twentieth.  I  stood  at 
the  gate  of  the  farm-house  where  three  roads  met, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  bird-songs.  For  a  long  time  I 
stood  there,  and  tried  to  note  how  many  different 
songs  I  could  hear.  Nearby  were  the  alto  joy-notes 
of  the  Baltimore  oriole.  Up  from  the  meadow  where 
the  trout  brook  flowed,  came  the  bubbling,  gurgling 
notes  of  the  bobolink.  Robins,  wood  thrushes,  song 
sparrows,  chipping  sparrows,  blue-birds,  vireos,  gold- 
finches, chebecs,  indigo  birds,  flickers,  phoebes,  scar- 
let tanagers,  red-winged  blackbirds,  catbirds,  house 
wrens  —  altogether,  without  moving  from  my  place, 
I  counted  twenty-three  different  bird-songs  and 
bird-notes. 

Nearby  I  saw  a  robin's  nest,  curiously  enough  built 
directly  on  the  ground  on  the  side  of  the  bank  of  one 
of  the  roads,  and  lined  with  white  wool,  evidently 
picked  up  in  the  neighboring  sheep-pasture.    This 


12  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

started  me  on  another  of  the  games  of  solitaire  which 
I  like  to  play  out-of-doors,  and  I  tried  to  see  how 
many  nests  I  could  discover  from  the  same  vantage- 
point  without  moving.  This  is  really  a  good  way  to 
find  birds'  nests,  and  the  one  who  stands  still  and 
watches  the  birds  will  often  find  more  than  he  who 
beats  about.  For  a  long  time  the  robin's  nest  was  the 
only  one  on  my  list.  At  last  the  flashing  orange  and 
black  of  a  Baltimore  oriole  betrayed  its  gray  swing- 
ing pouch  of  a  nest  in  a  nearby  spruce  tree  —  the  only 
time  that  I  have  ever  seen  an  oriole's  nest  in  an  ever- 
green tree.  In  a  lilac  bush  I  saw  the  deep  nest  of  the 
catbird,  with  its  four  vivid  blue  eggs  and  the  in- 
evitable grapevine-bark  lining  around  its  edge. 

In  a  high  fork  in  a  great  maple  tree  at  the  corner 
of  the  road,  the  chebec,  or  least  flycatcher,  showed  me 
her  home.  Sooner  or  later,  if  you  watch  any  of  the 
flycatchers  long  enough,  they  will  generally  show  you 
their  nests.  This  one  was  high  up  in  a  fork,  and  made 
of  string  and  wool  and  down.  Over  in  the  adjoining 
orchard  I  saw  a  kingbird  light  on  her  nest  in  the  very 
top  of  an  apple  tree;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that,  if  I 
had  climbed  up  to  it,  I  would  have  seen  three  beauti- 
ful cream- white  eggs  blotched  with  chocolate-brown. 

The  last  nest  of  all  was  my  treasure  nest  of  the 
summer.  I  was  about  to  give  up  the  game  and  start 
off  for  a  walk,  when  suddenly,  right  ahead  of  me, 
hanging  on  the  limb  of  a  sugar-maple,  not  five  feet 
above  the  stone  wall,  I  saw  the  swinging  basket-nest 
of  a  vireo,  with  the  woven  white  strips  of  birch-bark 
on  the  outside  which  all  vireos  use  in  that  part  of  the 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  13 

country.  It  was  as  if  a  veil  had  suddenly  dropped 
from  my  eyes,  for  I  had  been  looking  in  that  direc- 
tion constantly,  without  seeing  the  nest  directly  in 
front  of  me.  Probably,  at  last,  I  must  have  slightly 
turned  my  head  and  finally  caught  the  light  in  a 
different  direction.  I  supposed  that  the  nest  was  that 
of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  only  one  of  the  five  vireos 
which  would  be  likely  to  build  in  such  a  location. 
Climbing  upon  the  wall  to  look  at  it,  I  saw  that  the 
mother  bird  was  on  the  nest.  Even  when  I  took 
hold  of  the  limb,  she  did  not  fly.  Then  I  slowly 
pulled  the  limb  down,  and  still  the  brave  little  bird 
stayed  on  her  nest,  although  several  times  she  started 
to  her  feet  and,  ruffling  her  feathers,  made  as  if  to 
fly.  As  the  nest  came  nearer  and  nearer,  I  could  see 
that  she  was  quivering  all  over  with  fear,  and  that 
her  heart  was  beating  so  rapidly  as  to  shake  her  tiny 
body.  Finally,  as  she  came  almost  within  reach  of 
my  outstretched  hand,  she  gave  me  one  long  look  and 
then  suddenly  cuddled  down  over  her  dearly  loved 
eggs  and  hid  her  head  inside  of  the  nest.  Reaching 
my  hand  out  very  carefully,  I  stroked  her  quivering 
little  back.  She  raised  her  head  and  gave  me  an- 
other long  look,  as  if  to  make  sure  whether  I  meant 
her  any  harm.  Evidently  I  seemed  friendly,  for  as 
I  stroked  her  head  she  turned  and  gave  my  finger 
a  little  peck,  then  snuggled  her  head  up  against  it 
in  the  most  confiding,  engaging  way.  As  she  did 
so,  I  noticed  that  a  white  line  ran  from  the  beak  to 
the  eye,  and  that  she  had  a  white  eye-ring  and  a 
bluish-gray  head.    As  I  looked  at  her,  suddenly  from 


14  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

a  nearby  branch  the  father  bird  sang,  and  I  recog- 
nized the  song  of  the  solitary  or  blue-headed  vireo, 
who  belongs  in  the  deep  woods  and  whose  rare  nest  is 
usually  found  in  their  depths.  As  the  male  came 
nearer,  I  could  see  his  pure  white  throat  which,  with 
the  white  line  from  eye  to  bill  and  the  greenish-yellow 
markings  on  either  flank,  make  good  field-marks. 
The  four  eggs,  which  I  saw  afterwards  when  the 
mother  bird  was  off  the  nest,  were  white  with  reddish 
markings  all  over  instead  of  being  blotched  at  one 
end  as  are  those  of  the  red-eyed  vireo.  Every  day 
for  the  rest  of  that  week  I  visited  my  little  friend; 
and  before  I  left  she  grew  to  know~me  so  well  that 
she  would  not  even  ruffle  up  her  feathers  when  I 
pulled  the  limb  down. 

Children  are  of  great  help  in  the  life  adventurous. 
They  have  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  admiration  for 
even  the  feeblest  efforts  of  their  parents  in  adven- 
turing. Many  a  dull  dog,  who  once  heard  nothing 
in  all  the  world  but  the  clank  of  business,  has  been 
changed  into  a  confirmed  adventurer  by  sheer  ap- 
preciation. Moreover,  children  possess  an  energy  and 
imagination  which  we  grown-ups  often  lack.  Only 
the  other  afternoon  I  started  off  for  a  walk  with 
my  four,  to  find  myself  suddenly  dining  in  the  New 
Forest  with  Robin  Hood,  Little  John,  Will  Scarlet, 
and  Allan  a'  Dale.  Owing  probably  to  a  certain 
comfortable  habit  of  person,  I  was  elected  to  be 
Friar  Tuck. 

The  forest  itself  is  a  wonderful  wood  of  great  trees 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  15 

hidden  in  a  little  valley  between  two  round  green 
hills.  In  its  centre  is  a  bubbling  spring  of  clear  water 
that  never  freezes  in  winter  or  dries  up  in  summer. 
That  afternoon  we  had  explored  the  Haunted  House 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  with  its  date-stone  of  1809, 
ten-foot  fireplace,  and  vast  stone  chimney,  and  had 
fearfully  approached  that  door  under  which  a  dark 
stream  of  blood  flowed  a  half-century  ago,  on  the  day 
when  all  humans  stopped  dwelling  in  that  house 
forever. 

Little  John  climbed  puffingly  up  through  two  sets 
of  floor-beams,  to  where  a  few  warped  hemlock 
boards  still  make  a  patch  of  flooring  in  the  attic. 
Under  a  rafter  he  found  a  cunningly  concealed 
hidey-hole,  drilled  like  a  flicker's  nest  into  one  of 
the  soft  mica-schist  stones  of  the  chimney.  Inside 
were  a  battered  home-made  top,  whittled  out  of  a 
solid  block,  and  two  flint  Indian  arrow-heads,  ghosts 
of  some  long-dead  boyhood  which  still  lingered  in 
the  little  attic  chamber. 

In  the  spring  twilight  we  stole  out  by  a  side  door, 
so  that  we  might  not  cross  that  stained  threshold. 
A  lilac  bush,  which  in  a  century  of  growth  had  be- 
come a  thicket  of  purple,  scented  bloom,  surrounded 
the  whole  side  of  the  house;  while  beside  a  squat  but- 
tonwood  tree  of  monstrous  girth  was  the  dome  of  a 
Dutch  oven.  We  followed  a  dim  path  fringed  with 
white-thorn  and  sprays  of  sweet  viburnum  blossoms. 

From  the  distance,  beyond  the  farther  hill,  came 
the  crooning  of  the  toads  on  their  annual  pilgrimage 
back  to  the  marsh  where  they  were  born.   In  time  we 


16  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

reached  a  bank  all  blue  and  white  with  enameled 
innocents.  In  front  of  this  the  camp-fire  was  always 
kindled.  The  Band  scattered  for  fire-wood  —  but 
not  far,  for  there  were  too  many  lurking  shadows 
among  those  tree-trunks.  At  last  the  fire  was  laid 
and  lighted.  Five  minutes  later  all  the  powers  of 
darkness  fled  for  their  lives  before  the  steady  roaring 
column  of  smokeless  flame  that  surged  up  in  front 
of  the  Band.  Followed  wassail  and  feasting  galore. 
Haunches  of  venison,  tasting  much  like  mutton- 
chops,  broiled  hissingly  at  the  end  of  green  beech- 
wood  spits.  Flagons  of  Adam's  ale  were  quaffed,  and 
the  loving-cup  —  it  was  of  the  folding  variety  — 
passed  from  hand  to  hand. 

All  at  once  the  substantial  Tuck  heaved  himself 
up  to  his  feet  beside  the  dying  fire.  There  was  not  a 
sound  in  the  sleeping  forest.  Night-folk,  wood- 
folk,  water-folk,  all  were  still.  Then  from  the  pursed 
lips  of  the  Friar  sounded  a  long,  wavering,  mournful 
call.  Again  and  again  it  shuddered  away  across  the 
hills.  Suddenly,  so  far  away  that  at  first  it  seemed 
an  echo,  it  was  answered.  Once  and  twice  more  the 
call  sounded,  and  each  time  the  answer  was  nearer 
and  louder.  Something  was  coming.  As  the  Band 
listened  aghast,  around  the  circle  made  by  the  fire- 
light glided  a  dark  shape  with  fiery  eyes.  It  realized 
their  worst  fears,  and  with  one  accord  they  threw 
themselves  on  the  Friar,  who  rocked  under  the 
impact. 

"Send  it  back,  Fathie,  send  it  back!"  they  shouted 
in  chorus. 


THE  SINGER  OF  THE  NIGHT  -  THE   SCREECH   OWL 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES  17 

The  good  Friar  unpuckered  his  lips. 

"X  am  surprised,  comrades,"  he  said  severely. 
"You  are  n't  afraid  of  an  old  screech-owl,  are  you?" 

"N-n-n-ooo,"  quavered  little  Will  Scarlet,  "if 
you're  sure  it's  a  nowl. " 

"Certain  sure,"  asserted  the  Friar  reassuringly, 
and  gave  the  call  again. 

On  muffled,  silent  wings  the  dark  form  drifted 
around  and  around  the  light,  but  never  across  it,  and 
then  alighted  on  a  nearby  tree  and  gave  an  indescrib- 
able little  crooning  note  which  the  Friar  could  only 
approximate.  At  last,  disgusted  with  the  clumsy 
attempts  to  continue  a  conversation  so  well  begun, 
the  owl  melted  away  into  the  darkness  and  was  gone. 

After  that,  the  Band  decided  that  home  was  the 
one  place  for  them.  Water  was  poured  on  the  blaze, 
and  earth  heaped  over  the  hissing  embers.  Under 
the  sullen  flare  of  Arcturus  and  the  glow  of  Algieba, 
Spica,  and  all  the  stars  of  spring,  they  started  back 
by  dim  wood  roads  and  flower-scented  lanes.  Will 
Scarlet,  Little  John,  and  Allan  a'  Dale  frankly  shared 
the  hands  of  the  Friar,  and  in  the  darkest  places 
even  the  redoubtable  Robin  himself  casually  took 
possession  of  an  unoccupied  thumb. 


II 

ZERO  BIRDS 

It  had  been  a  strenuous  night.  All  day  the  mercury 
had  been  flirting  with  the  zero  mark,  and  soon 
after  sunset  burrowed  down  into  the  bulb  below  all 
readings.  My  bed  that  night  felt  like  a  well-iced 
tomb.  Probably  daylight  would  have  found  me 
frozen  to  death  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  saving  idea. 
Hurrying  into  the  children's  room,  I  selected  two  of 
the  warmest  and  chubbiest.  Banking  them  on  either 
side  of  me  in  my  bed,  I  just  survived  the  night. 
Of  course  it  was  hard  on  them ;  but  then,  any  round, 
warm  child  of  proper  sentiments  should  welcome  an 
opportunity  to  save  the  life  of  an  aged  parent. 

In  spite  of  my  patent  heating-plant  I  woke  up 
toward  morning  shivering,  and  remembered  with  a 
terrible  depression  that  I  had  boasted  to  Mrs. 
Naturalist  and  to  various  and  sundry  scoffing  friends 
that  I  would  cut  down  and  cut  up  and  haul  in  one 
forty-foot  hickory  tree  before  the  glad  New  Year. 
For  a  while  I  decided  that  there  was  nothing  on  earth 
worth  exchanging  for  that  warm  bed.  Finally, 
however,  my  better  nature  conquered,  and  the  dusk 
before  the  dawn  found  me  in  the  woods  in  front  of  a 
dead  hickory  tree  some  forty  feet  high  and  a  couple 
of  rods  through  —  at  least  that  was  how  its  flinty 
girth  impressed  me  after  I  had  chopped  a  while. 


ZERO  BIRDS  19 

The  air  was  like  iced  wine.  Every  axe-stroke  drove 
it  tingling  through  my  blood. 

Before  attacking  the  hickory,  however,  I  began  to 
cut  down  the  brush  surrounding  the  doomed  tree,  so 
as  to  gain  clear  space  for  the  axe-swing.  Almost  im- 
mediately a  vindictive  spice-bush  in  falling  knocked 
off  my  glasses,  and  they  fell  into  the  snow  some- 
where ahead  of  me.  Without  them  I  am  in  the  same 
condition  as  a  mole  or  a  shrew,  my  sense  of  sight 
being  only  rudimentary.  Down  I  plumped  on  my 
knees  in  the  snow  and  fumbled  in  the  half  light  with 
numbed  fingers  through  the  cold  whiteness  ahead. 

As  I  groped  and  grumbled  in  this  lowly  position, 
suddenly  I  heard  the  prelude  to  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  winter  dawn-songs.  It  was  a  liquid  loud 
note  full  of  rolling  r's.  Perhaps  it  can  be  best  rep- 
resented in  print  somewhat  as  follows:  "  Chip'rYr'r. " 
I  forgot  my  lost  glasses  and  my  cold  hands  and  my 
wet  knees  waiting  for  the  song  that  I  knew  was  com- 
ing. Another  preliminary,  rolling  note  or  so,  and  there 
sounded  from  a  low  stump  a  wild,  ringing  song  that 
could  be  heard  for  half  a  mile.  "  Wheedle- wheedle- 
wheedle,"  it  began  full  of  liquid  bell-like  overtones. 
Then  the  singer  added  another  syllable  to  his  strain 
and  sang,  "Whee-udel,  whee-udel,  whee-udel." 
Three  times,  with  a  short  rest  between,  he  sang  the 
full  double  strain  through,  although  it  was  so  dark 
that  only  the  ghostly,  black  tree-trunks  could  be 
seen  against  the  white  snow.  I  needed  no  sight  of 
him,  however,  to  recognize  the  singer.  The  song 
took  me  back  to  a  bitter  winter  day  in  Philadelphia 


20  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

some  seventeen  years  ago,  when  I  was  laboriously 
learning  the  birds.  I  was  walking  through  a  bit  of 
waste-land  encircled  by  trolley-tracks  when  I  heard 
this  same  song.  It  was  like  nothing  which  I  had 
ever  heard  in  New  England,  where  I  had  learned 
what  little  I  knew  about  birds,  and  I  searched  every- 
where for  the  singer,  expecting  to  see  a  bird  about 
the  size  of  a  robin. 

Finally,  in  the  underbrush  just  ahead  of  me,  I 
saw  an  unmistakable  wren  singing  so  ecstatically  that 
he  shook  and  trembled  all  over  with  the  outpouring 
of  his  song.  It  was  my  first  sight  and  hearing  of 
this  southern  bird,  the  Carolina  wren,  the  largest  of 
our  five  wrens,  whose  field-mark  is  a  long  white 
line  over  the  eye.  He  is  reddish-brown,  while  the 
house  wren,  which  is  half  an  inch  shorter,  is  cinna- 
mon-brown. The  long-billed  marsh  wren  also  has  a 
white  line  over  the  eye  and  is  about  the  same  size, 
but  is  never  found  away  from  the  tall  grass  bordering 
on  water,  and  has  no  such  song  as  the  Carolina. 
The  winter  wren  and  the  short-billed  marsh  wren 
could  neither  of  them  be  mistaken  for  the  Carolina, 
as  both  are  about  an  inch  and  a  half  shorter  and 
lack  the  white  line.  The  house  wren  and  the  long- 
billed  marsh  wren  bubble  when  they  sing,  the  Caro- 
lina wren  and  the  winter  wren  ring,  and  the  short- 
billed  marsh  wren,  the  rarest  of  all,  clicks.  Of  them 
all  only  the  Carolina  wren  sings  in  the  winter. 

That  day  the  wren-song  brought  me  good  luck. 
It  was  no  more  than  finished  when  I  heard  someone 
passing  along  a  nearby  wood-road,  who  turned  out 


ZERO  BIRDS  21 

to  be  an  early-rising  workman  from  whom  I  borrowed 
some  matches  with  which  I  finally  discovered  my 
missing  eyes  half  buried  in  the  snow.  I  attacked  the 
pignut  hickory  with  great  energy  to  make  up  for 
lost  time.  Little  by  little  the  axe  bit  through  the 
tough  wood,  until  the  kerf  was  well  past  the  heart 
of  the  tree.  As  I  chopped  I  could  hear  the  quick 
strokes  of  a  far  better  wood-cutter  than  I  shall  ever 
be.  Suddenly  he  gave  a  loud,  rattling  call,  and  I 
recognized  the  hairy  woodpecker.  He  is  much  larger 
than  the  downy,  being  nearly  the  size  of  a  robin, 
while  his  call  is  wilder  and  louder  and  lacks  the 
downward  run  of  the  downy's  note.  We  chopped  on 
together,  he  at  his  tree  and  I  at  mine.  Suddenly 
from  my  tree  sounded  a  warning  crack,  and  the 
trunk  wavered  for  a  moment.  I  stepped  well  off  to 
one  side,  for  it  is  dangerous  to  stand  behind  a  falling 
tree.  If  it  strikes  anything  as  it  falls  the  trunk  may 
shoot  backward.  A  venerable  ancestor  of  mine,  so 
the  story  runs,  tried  to  celebrate  his  ninetieth  birth- 
day by  chopping  down  a  tree,  and  standing  behind 
it,  was  killed  by  the  back-lash  of  the  falling  trunk. 

The  tree  swayed  forward  toward  the  crimson  rim 
of  the  rising  sun.  One  more  stroke  at  its  heart,  and 
there  was  a  loud  series  of  cracks,  followed  by  a  roar 
like  thunder  as  it  crashed  down.  Almost  immedi- 
ately, as  if  awakened  by  the  noise,  I  began  to  hear 
bird-notes.  From  over  to  my  left  sounded  a  series 
of  sharp,  irritating  alarm-notes,  and  in  the  waxing 
light  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  crested  blood-red  bird 
at  the  edge  of  a  green-brier  thicket.    In  that  same 


22  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

place  I  had  found  his  nest  the  spring  before,  made  of 
twigs  and  strips  of  bark  and  lined  with  grass  and  roots 
and  holding  three  speckled  eggs.  It  was  the  cardinal 
grosbeak,  another  bird  unknown  to  me  in  New  Eng- 
land. No  matter  how  often  I  meet  this  crimson- 
crested  grosbeak,  he  will  never  become  a  common 
bird  to  me.  Each  time  I  see  him  I  feel  again  some- 
thing of  the  thrill  which  came  over  me  when  I  first 
met  this  singer  from  the  southland  in  a  thicket  on 
the  edge  of  Philadelphia.  With  the  Carolina  wren 
and  the  tufted  titmouse,  the  cardinal  grosbeak 
completes  a  trio  of  birds  that  can  never  be  common- 
place to  one  born  north  of  Central  Park,  New  York, 
which  is  about  the  limit  of  their  northern  range. 

To-day,  as  I  watched  my  flaming  cardinal,  he  sud 
denly  dived  stiffly  into  the  heart  of  the  thicket. 
A  moment  later  from  its  midst  sounded  a  clear, 
loud  whistle,  "Whit,  whit,  whit."  I  answered  him, 
for  this  is  one  of  the  few  bird-calls  I  can  imitate. 
Before  long  his  dove-colored  mate  also  appeared. 
Her  wings  and  tail  were  of  a  duller  red,  while  the 
upper-parts  of  her  sleek  body  were  of  a  brownish-ash 
tint.  The  throat  and  a  patch  by  the  base  of  the  bill 
were  black  in  both.  As  I  watched,  the  singer  in  the 
thicket  added  to  his  whistle  the  word  "Teu,  teu,  teu, 
teu"  and  then  finally  ran  them  together —  "Whee- 
teu,  whee-teu,  whee-teu,"  so  rapidly  whistled  that 
it  sounded  almost  like  a  single  note. 

On  the  way  back  to  breakfast,  as  the  sun  came  up 
and  warmed  a  slope  of  the  woods,  a  flock  of  slate- 
colored  j uncos  burst  out  altogether  in  a  chorus  of 


ZERO  BIRDS  23 

soft  little  trills,  with  now  and  then  sharp  alarm- 
notes  like  the  clicking  of  pebbles  together,  inter- 
spersed with  tiny  half-whispered  notes  best  expressed 
by  the  same  letters  as  those  used  in  writing  the  gros- 
beak music  —  "Teu,  teu,  teu,  teu."  Suddenly,  from 
a  farther  corner  of  the  sun-warmed  slope,  I  heard  a 
few  tinkling  notes  followed  by  a  tantalizing  snatch 
of  rich,  sweet  song  shot  through  with  canary-like 
trills  and  runs.  I  hurried  over  the  snow  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  little  flock  of  birds  with  crowns  of 
reddish-brown,  and  each  wearing  small  black  spots 
in  the  exact  centre  of  their  drab-colored  waistcoats. 
They  were  tree-sparrows  down  from  the  far  North, 
and  I  was  fortunate  to  have  heard  the  peculiarly 
gentle  cadence  of  one  of  their  rare  winter  songs. 

Farther  on,  the  caw  of  a  passing  crow  drifted  down 
from  the  cold  sky,  and  before  I  left  the  woods  I  heard 
the  pip  of  a  downy  woodpecker  and  the  grunt  of  the 
white-breasted  nuthatch,  that  tree-climber  with  the 
white  cheeks  which,  unlike  woodpeckers,  can  go  both 
up  and  down  trees  head-foremost.  In  the  early  spring 
and  sometimes  on  warm  winter  days,  one  may 
hear  his  spring  song,  which  is  "Quee-quee-quee. " 
It  is  not  much  of  a  song,  but  Mr.  Nuthatch  is  very 
proud  of  it  and  usually  pauses  admiringly  between 
each  two  strains.  In  my  early  bird-days  I  used  to 
mistake  this  spring  song  for  the  note  of  an  early 
flicker,  and  would  scandalize  better-educated  orni- 
thologists by  reporting  flickers  several  weeks  be- 
fore their  time.  The  last  bird  I  heard  before  I  left 
the  woods   remarked  solemnly,  "Too- wheedle,  too- 


U  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

wheedle,  too-wheedle,  too-wheedle,"  like  a  creaking 
wheelbarrow,  and  then  suddenly  broke  out  into  the 
flat,  harsh  "Djay,  djay,  djay"  which  has  given  the 
silver-and-blue  jay  its  name. 

By  the  time  I  had  reached  home,  I  decided  that  it 
was  too  cold  a  day  to  practise  law  safely.  The  state 
legislature  in  their  wisdom  had  already  made  the  day 
a  half-holiday.  Not  to  be  outdone  in  generosity,  I 
decided  to  donate  my  half  and  make  the  holiday  a 
whole  one.  Anent  this  matter  of  holidays,  the 
trouble  with  most  of  us  is  that  we  are  obsessed  with 
the  importance  of  our  daily  work.  There  are  many 
pleasant  byways  which  we  plan  to  come  back  and 
explore  when  we  have  reached  the  end  of  the  straight, 
steep,  and  intensely  narrow  road  that  leads  to 
achievement.  The  trouble  is  that  there  is  no  return- 
ing. Men  die  rich,  famous,  or  successful,  who  have 
never  taken  the  time  to  companion  their  children  or 
to  find  their  way  into  the  world  of  the  wild-folk 
which  lies  at  their  very  doors.  It  was  not  always  so. 
Read  in  Evelyn's  Diary  how  for  sixty  years  a  great 
man  played  a  great  part  under  three  kings  and  the 
grim  Protector,  and  yet  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  refresh  his  life  with  bird-songs,  hilltops,  flower- 
fields,  and  sky-air.  We  reach  our  goal  to-day  in  a 
few  desperate  years,  stripped  to  the  buff  like  a 
Marathon  runner.  One  can  arrive  later  and  not  miss 
a  thousand  little  happinesses  along  the  way. 

With  similar  arguments  I  convinced  myself  on  that 
day,  that  it  was  my  duty  as  an  amateur  naturalist 
to  discover  how  many  birds  I  could  meet  between 


ZERO  BIRDS  25 

dawn  and  dark  with  the  thermometer  below  zero. 
Certain  gentlemen-adventurers  of  my  acquaintance 
aided  and  abetted  me  in  this  plan.  They  all  held 
high  office  in  a  military  organization  known  for 
short  as  the  Band.  There  was  First  Lieutenant 
Trottie,  Second  Lieutenant  Honey,  Sergeant  Henny- 
Penny,  and  Corporal  Alice-Palace,  while  I  had  been 
honored  with  a  captain's  commission  in  this  regi- 
ment. To  be  sure,  there  was  something  of  a  dearth 
of  privates;  but  with  such  a  gallant  array  of  officers 
their  absence  was  not  felt.  At  any  hour  of  day  or 
night,  to  the  last  man,  every  member  of  the  Band 
was  ready  for  the  most  desperate  adventures  by  field 
and  flood. 

As  we  left  the  house  the  thermometer  stood  at 
four  below,  while  the  sky  was  of  a  frozen  blue, 
without  a  cloud,  and  had  a  hard  glitter  as  if  streaked 
with  frost.  In  a  low  tree  by  the  roadside,  we  heard 
the  metallic  note  of  a  downy  woodpecker  scurrying 
up  the  trunk  and  backing  stiffly  down.  Farther  on 
sounded  a  loud  cawing,  and  we  saw  four  ruffianly 
crows  assaulting  a  respectable  female  broad-winged 
hawk.  One  after  the  other  they  would  flap  over  her 
as  closely  as  possible,  aiming  vicious  pecks  as  they 
passed.  The  broad-winged  beat  the  air  frantically 
with  her  short,  wide,  fringed  wings,  and  seemed  to 
make  no  effort  to  defend  herself  against  her  black, 
jeering  pursuers.  Once  she  alighted  on  an  exposed 
limb.  Instantly  the  crows  settled  near  her  and 
used  language  which  no  respectable  female  hawk 
could  listen  to  for  a  moment.    She  spread  her  wings 


26  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  soared  away,  and  as  she  passed  out  of  sight  they 
were  still  cawing  on  her  trail. 

If  the  hawk  had  been  one  of  the  swift  Accipiters, 
such  as  the  gray  goshawk  or  the  Cooper's  hawk, 
or  any  of  the  falcons,  no  crow  would  have  ventured  to 
take  any  liberties.    One  of  my  friends,  who  collects 
bird's  eggs  instead  of  bird-notes,  was  once  attempt- 
ing feloniously  to  break  and  enter  the  home  of  a 
duck-hawk  which  was  highly  regarded  in  the  com- 
munity—about two  hundred  feet  highly  in  fact. 
As  my  friend  was  swinging  back  and  forth  on  a  rope 
in  front  of  the  perpendicular  cliff,  said  duck-hawk 
dashed  at  him  at  the  rate  of  some  ninety  miles  per 
hour.    Being  scared  off  by  a  blank  cartridge,  the  en- 
raged   falcon    towered.     A    passing    crow    flapping 
through  the  air   made  a  peck  at  the  hawk  as  it  shot 
past.   That  was  one  of  the  last  and  most  unfortunate 
acts  in  that  crow's  whole  life.    The  duck-hawk  was 
fairly  aching  with  the  desire  to  attack  someone  or 
something  which  was  not  protected  by  thunder  and 
lightning.    With  one  flash  of  its  wings  it  shot  under 
that  misguided  crow,  and,  turning  on  its  back  in 
mid-air,  slashed  it  with  six  talons  like  sharpened  steel. 
The  crow  dropped,  a  dead  mass  of  black  and  blood, 
to  the  brow  of  the  cliff  below. 

Finally  we  reached  the  tall,  stone  chimney  —  all 
that  is  left  of  some  long-forgotten  house,  which 
marks  the  entrance  to  old  Darby  Road,  which  was 
opened  in  1701.  At  that  point  Wild-Folk  Land 
begins.  The  hurrying  feet  of  more  than  two  centur- 
ies have  sunk  the  road  some  ten  feet  below  its  banks, 


ZERO  BIRDS  27 

and  the  wild-folk  use  its  hidden  bed  like  one  of  their 
own  trails.  Foxes  pad  along  its  rain-washed  course, 
and  rabbits  and  squirrels  hop  and  scurry  across  its 
narrow  width,  while  in  spring  and  summer  wild 
ginger,  ebony  spleenwort,  the  blue-and-white  porce- 
lain petals  of  the  hepatica,  and  a  host  of  other  flowers 
bloom  on  its  banks.  The  birds  too  nest  there,  from 
the  belted  gray-blue  and  white  kingfisher,  which  has 
bored  a  deep  hole  into  the  clay  under  an  overhanging 
wild-cherry  tree,  down  to  the  field  sparrow,  with  its 
pink  beak  and  flute-song,  which  watches  four  speck- 
led eggs  close-hidden  in  a  tiny  cup  of  woven  grass. 

To-day  we  followed  the  windings  of  the  road,  until 
we  came  to  the  vast  black  oak  tree  which  marks  the 
place  where  Darby  Road,  after  running  for  nearly 
ten  miles,  stops  to  rest.  Beyond  stretched  the  un- 
broken expanse  of  Blacksnake  Swamp,  bounded  by 
the  windings  of  Darby  Creek.  The  Band  seated 
themselves  on  one  of  their  favorite  resting-places, 
a  great  log  which  lay  under  the  trees.  Above  us  a 
white-breasted  nuthatch,  with  its  white  cheeks  and 
black  head,  was  rat-tat-tatting  up  and  around  a 
half -dead  limb,  picking  out  every  insect  egg  in  sight 
from  the  bark.  As  the  bird  came  near  the  broken 
top  of  the  bough,  out  of  a  hole  popped  a  very  angry 
red  squirrel  exactly  like  a  jack-in-the-box.  The  red 
squirrel  is  the  fastest  of  all  the  tree-folk  among  the 
animals,  but  a  nuthatch  on  a  limb  is  not  afraid  of 
anything  that  flies  or  crawls  or  climbs.  He  can  run 
up  and  down  around  a  branch,  forward  and  back- 
ward, unlike  the  woodpeckers,  which  must  always 


28  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

back  down,  or  the  brown  creepers,  which  can  go  up 
a  tree  in  long  spirals  but  have  to  fly  down. 

A  red  streak  flashed  down  the  limb  on  which  the 
nuthatch  was  working.  That  was  the  squirrel.  A 
fraction  of  a  second  ahead  of  the  squirrel  there  was  a 
wink  of  gray  and  white.  That  was  the  nuthatch. 
Before  the  squirrel  could  even  recover  his  balance, 
there  was  a  cheerful  rat-tat-tat  just  behind  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  limb.  As  the  squirrel  turned,  the 
rapping  sounded  on  the  other  side  of  the  branch. 
His  bushy  tail  quivered,  and  using  some  strong 
squirrel-language,  he  dived  back  into  his  hole.  He 
was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  nuthatch  was 
tapping  again  at  his  door.  Once  more  the  squirrel 
rushed  out  chattering  and  sputtering.  Once  more 
the  nuthatch  was  not  there.  Then  he  tried  chasing 
the  bird  around  the  limb,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
that.  The  nuthatch  could  turn  in  half  the  time  and 
space,  and  moreover  did  not  have  to  be  afraid  of 
falling,  for  a  drop  of  fifty  feet  to  frozen  ground  is 
no  joke  even  for  a  red  squirrel.  The  aggravating 
thing  about  the  nuthatch  was  that,  no  matter  how 
hard  the  squirrel  chased  him,  he  never  stopped  for  a 
second,  tapping  away  at  the  branch,  feeding  even  as 
he  ran.  Finally  Mr.  Squirrel  went  back  to  his  house 
and  stayed  there,  while  the  nuthatch  tapped  in 
triumph  all  around  his  hole,  although  muffled  chat- 
terings  from  within  expressed  the  squirrel's  unvar- 
nished opinion  of  that  nuthatch. 

When  the  nuthatch  finally  flew  to  another  tree,  we 
got  up  and  followed  a  path  that  twisted  through  a 


JUST  OUT  OF  THE  NEST  — YOUNG   RED  SQUIRRELS 


ZERO  BIRDS  29 

barren  field  full  of  grassy  tussocks  and  clumps  of 
mockernut  hickories  and  black-walnut  trees,  until 
it  at  last  lost  itself  in  the  depths  of  Blacksnake 
Swamp.  This  swamp  had  taken  its  name  from  the 
day  that  we  caught  a  black  snake  skimming  along 
over  the  tops  of  the  bushes  like  a  bird.  In  summer 
it  is  full  of  impassable  quagmires,  and  to-day  we 
hoped  to  explore  the  hidden  places  which  we  had 
never  yet  seen.  We  had  scarcely  passed  through  the 
outer  fringe  of  tall  grasses  and  cat-tails,  when  we 
heard  everywhere  through  the  cold  air  little  tinkling 
notes,  and  caught  glimpses  of  dark  sparrow-like  birds 
with  forked  tails,  striped  breasts,  and  streaked  rich 
brown  backs,  each  one  showing  a  fine  zigzag  whitish 
line  at  the  bend  of  the  wing.  Another  field-mark 
was  a  light  patch  over  each  eye,  and  we  identified  the 
first  and  largest  flock  of  pine  siskin  of  the  year. 
These  siskin  are  strange  birds.  One  never  knows 
when  and  where  they  will  appear.  The  last  flock 
that  I  had  seen  was  in  my  back-yard  in  May.  Usu- 
ally too  they  are  in  trees,  and  this  was  the  first  time 
that  I  had  ever  met  with  them  on  the  ground.  The 
birds  gave  little  canary-like  notes,  like  goldfinches, 
which  are  often  found  with  them,  but  can  always  be 
recognized  by  their  unstreaked  breasts  and  double 
wing-bars. 

For  a  long  time  we  studied  the  flock  through  our 
field-glasses,  until  every  last  one  of  the  Band  had 
learned  this  new  bird.  As  we  watched  them,  a 
white-throated  sparrow  lisped  from  a  nearby  bush, 
and  a  little  later  we  met  a  flock  of  tree  sparrows,  a 


30  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

bird  which  is  never  by  any  chance  found  in  a  tree. 
In  the  distance  a  woodpecker  flew  through  the  air  in 
a  labored  up-and-down  flight,  and,  as  he  disap- 
peared, he  gave  the  wild  cry  of  the  hairy  woodpecker, 
a  bird  nearly  twice  the  size  of  his  smaller  brother,  the 
downy.  Close  by  the  side  of  the  creek,  we  heard  a 
tiny  note  like  "pheep,  pheep,  pheep,"  and,  even  as 
we  looked  for  the  bird,  it  flew  past  and  lit  on  a  tree 
on  the  other  side  of  the  path,  not  two  feet  away.  We 
all  stood  stony  still,  and  in  a  minute  a  brown  creeper 
circled  the  tree,  climbing  it  in  tiny  hops  in  a  wide 
spiral.  He  was  so  close  that  we  could  see  his  stiff, 
spiny  tail  with  a  little  row  of  spots  at  its  base,  and  the 
brown  and  gray  speckles  on  his  back,  and  his  long 
curiously  curved  bill. 

We  pressed  on  into  the  very  heart  of  the  great, 
treacherous  marsh,  to-day  frozen  hard  and  safe,  and 
explored  all  of  its  secret  places.  In  a  tangle  of  wild- 
grape  vine,  we  found  the  round  nest,  rimmed  with 
grape-vine  bark,  of  the  cardinal  grosbeak;  while 
over  in  a  thicket  of  elderberry  bushes,  all  rusty-gold 
with  the  clinging  stems  of  that  parasite,  the  dodder, 
showed  the  close  sheath  of  the  fine  branches  of  a 
swamp  maple.  In  a  fork  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
branches,  all  silver-gray,  was  the  empty  nest  of  a 
goldfinch,  the  last  of  all  the  birds  to  nest.  It  was 
made  of  twisted  strands  of  the  silk  of  the  milkweed 
pods  hackled  by  the  bird's  beak.  In  the  snow,  we 
came  across  a  strange  track  almost  like  the  trail  of  a 
snake.  It  was  a  wide  trough,  with  little  close-set, 
zigzag  paw-marks  running  all  through  it.    The  Cap- 


ZERO   BIRDS  31 

tain  told  the  Band  that  this  was  the  trail  of  the 
fierce  blarina  shrew,  one  of  the  killers.  Without  eyes 
or  ears,  this  strange  little  blind  death  eats  its  weight 
in  flesh  every  twenty-four  hours,  and  slays  under 
ground,  above  ground,  and  even  under  the  water. 
The  Band  regarded  the  strange  tracks  with  enormous 
interest. 

"How  big  do  they  grow?"  anxiously  inquired 
Heimy-Penny,  the  littlest  but  one  of  the  Band. 

"Just  a  little  longer  than  my  middle  finger,"  the 
Captain  reassured  him. 

Suddenly,  in  the  very  midst  of  this  zoological 
bric-a-brac,  a  great  thought  came  to  each  and  every 
of  the  Band  simultaneously. 

"Lunch-time  !"  they  shouted  with  one  accord. 

Then  occurred  the  tragedy  of  the  trip.   In  a  pocket 
of  his  shooting-jacket  the  Captain  had  a  package  of 
sandwiches  containing  just  one  apiece,  no  more,  no 
less.    The  rest  of  the  lunch,  thick  scones,  raisins, 
chocolate,  saveloy  sausage,  bacon,  and  other  neces- 
saries and  luxuries,  had  been  wrapped  up  in  another 
package  and  intrusted  to  Honey  as  head  of  the  com- 
missary department  for  the  day  —  and  Honey  had 
left  the  package  on  the  hall  table  !    It  was  a  grief 
almost  too  great  to  be  borne.    The  Band  regarded 
their  guilty  comrade  reproachfully.    Two  large  tears 
ran  down  Honey's  cheeks.    Alice-Palace,  the  littlest 
of  them  all,  gave  way  to  unrestrained  emotions  which 
bade  fair  to  frighten  away  the  most  blood-thirsty  of 
blarinas  within  the  radius  of  a  mile. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Captain  rose  to  the  emer- 


32  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

gency.  "Comrades,"  said  he,  placing  one  hand  over 
Alice-Palace's  widely-opened  mouth,  "all  is  not  lost. 
Old  woodsmen  like  ourselves  can  find  food  anywhere. 
Follow  me.     Hist!" 

Like  Hawk-Eye  and  Chingachgook  and  other 
well-known  scouts,  the  Captain  was  apt  to  employ 
that  mysterious  word  when  beginning  a  desperate 
adventure.  The  Band  followed  him  with  entire 
confidence,  albeit  with  certain  snifHings  on  the  part 
of  Corporal  Alice-Palace.  They  crossed  a  tiny  brook, 
and  found  themselves  in  a  little  grove  of  swamp 
maples  which  had  grown  up  around  the  fallen  trunk 
of  the  parent  tree.  The  Captain  scanned  the  trees 
carefully.  Everywhere  were  trails  in  the  snow  which 
he  told  them  were  the  tracks  of  gray  squirrels. 
Suddenly  he  reached  up  and  picked  out  from  between 
a  little  twig  and  the  smooth  trunk  of  a  swamp-maple 
sapling,  a  big,  dry,  beautifully-seasoned  black  wal- 
nut. That  started  the  Band  to  looking,  and  they 
found  that  the  little  trees  were  filled  with  walnuts, 
each  one  wedged  in  between  twigs  or  branches  so  that 
it  would  not  blow  down.  Up  and  down  and  about 
the  low  trees  climbed  and  scrambled  the  Band. 
Some  of  the  nuts  were  hidden  and  some  were  in  plain 
sight,  but  altogether  there  was  nearly  half  a  peck  of 
them,  each  one  containing  a  dry,  crisp,  golden  kernel 
which  tasted  as  rich  and  delicious  as  it  looked.  They 
had  come  upon  the  winter  storehouse  of  a  gray- 
squirrel  family. 

Piling  the  nuts  in  the  lee  of  a  big  oak  tree  where 
the  camp-fire  was  to  be  made,  they  followed  the  Cap- 


ZERO   BIRDS  33 

tain  to  a  broken-down  rail  fence,  where  grew  a  thicket 
of  tiny  trees  with  smooth  trunks,  whose  gray  twigs 
were  laden  down  with  bunches  of  what  looked  like 
tiny  purple  plums.  Each  one  had  a  layer  of  pulp  over 
a  flat  stone,  and  this  pulp,  what  there  was  of  it,  had  a 
curious  attractive  spicy  sugary  taste.  The  Captain 
told  the  Band  that  these  were  nanny-plums,  some- 
times known  as  sweet  viburnum.  Further  on,  they 
found  clusters  of  little  purple  fox-grapes,  fiercely 
sour  in  the  fall,  but  now  sweetened  enough,  under 
the  bite  of  the  frost,  to  be  swallowed. 

Still  the  Captain  was  not  ready  to  stop.  Up  the 
hillside  he  led  them,  by  a  winding  path  through 
tangled  thickets,  until  in  a  level  place  he  brought 
them  to  a  group  of  curious  trees.  The  bark  of  these 
was  deeply  grooved  and  in  places  nearly  three  inches 
thick,  while  the  branches  were  covered  with  scores 
and  scores  of  golden-red  globes.  Some  were  wrinkled 
and  frost-bitten  until  they  had  turned  brown,  but 
others  still  hung  plump  and  bright  in  the  winter  air. 
It  was  a  grove  of  persimmon  trees.  Before  he  could 
be  stopped,  Henny -Penny  had  picked  one  of  the  best- 
looking  of  the  lot  and  took  a  deep  bite  out  of  the  soft 
pulp.  Immediately  thereafter  he  spat  out  his  first 
taste  of  persimmon  with  great  emphasis,  his  mouth 
so  puckered  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could 
express  his  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  new  fruit. 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,"  warned  the 
Captain.    "Try  some  of  the  frost-bitten  ones. " 

The  Band  accordingly  did  so,  and  found  that  the 
worst-looking   and   most   wrinkled   specimens   were 


34  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

sweet  as  honey  and  without  a  trace  of  pucker.  On 
their  way  back,  they  passed  through  a  thicket  of 
tangled  bushes,  whose  branches  were  all  matted  to- 
gether in  bunches  which  looked  like  birds'  nests. 
The  twigs  were  laden  down  with  round,  purple  berries 
about  the  size  of  a  wild  cherry,  and  the  Captain  told 
the  Band  that  these  were  hackberries,  otherwise 
known  as  sugar-berries.  They  picked  handfuls  of 
them,  and  found  that  the  berry  had  a  sweet  spicy 
pulp  over  a  fragile  stone  that  could  be  crushed  like 
the  stones  of  a  raisin,  while  the  fruit  when  eaten 
resembled  a  raisin  in  taste. 

Hurrying  back  to  the  camp-fire  tree,  the  Captain 
dug  a  round  circle  a  couple  of  feet  in  diameter  in  the 
snow,  and  spread  down  a  layer  of  dry  leaves.  Over 
these  he  built  a  little  tepee  of  tiny,  dry,  black-oak 
twigs.  Underneath  this  he  placed  a  fragment  of 
birch-bark  which  he  had  peeled  off  one  of  the  aspen 
birches  which  grew  on  the  fringe  of  the  swamp. 
This  burned  like  paper,  and  in  a  minute  the  little 
ball  of  dry  twigs  was  crackling  away  with  a  steady 
flame.  Over  this  he  piled  dry  sassafras  and  hickory 
boughs,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  Band  was  seated 
around  a  column  of  flame  which  roared  up  fully  four 
feet  high.  With  their  backs  against  the  great  oak  tree, 
they  cracked  and  cracked  and  cracked  black  wal- 
nuts and  crunched  sugar-berries  and  nibbled  nanny- 
plums  and  tasted  frost-grapes — saving  the  single 
sandwich  until  next  to  the  last;  while  for  desert  they 
had  handfuls  and  handfuls  of  honey-sweet,  wrinkled 
persimmons. 


THE   DEAR   DEER   MICE 


ZERO  BIRDS  35 

Near  the  fire  Lieutenant  Trottie  found  an  old  box- 
cover  bedded  in  the  snow.  As  he  lifted  it  up,  there 
was  a  rush  and  a  scurry,  and  from  a  round,  warm 
nest  underneath  the  cover,  made  of  thistle-down, 
fur,  feathers,  and  tiny  bits  of  woodfibre  all  matted 
together  into  a  sort  of  felt,  dashed  six  reddish-brown, 
pink-pawed  mice.  They  burrowed  in  the  snow,  crept 
under  the  leaves,  and  in  a  minute  were  out  of  sight, 
all  except  one,  which  tried  to  climb  the  box-cover 
and  which  Trottie  caught  before  he  could  scurry 
over  the  top  of  it.  His  fur  was  like  plush,  with  the 
hair  a  warm  reddish-brown  at  the  ends  and  gray  at 
the  roots.  Underneath  he  was  snowy-white,  although 
there,  too,  the  fur  showed  mouse-gray  under  the 
surface.  He  had  little  brown  claws  and  six  tiny 
pink  disks  on  each  paw,  which  enabled  him  to  run 
up  and  down  perpendicular  surfaces.  His  eyes  were 
big  and  brown  and  lustrous,  and  he  had  flappy, 
pinky-gray,  velvet  ears,  each  one  of  which  was  half 
the  size  of  his  funny  little  face  and  thin  as  gossamer. 
His  paws  were  pink  and  his  long  tail  was  covered  with 
the  finest  of  hairs.  When  he  found  he  was  fairly 
caught,  he  snuggled  down  into  Trottie's  hand, 
making  a  queer  little  whimpering  noise,  while  his 
nose  wrinkled  and  quivered.  When  Trottie  brought 
him  to  the  fire,  Henny-Penny  offered  him  a  half- 
kernel  of  one  of  his  walnuts.  Instantly  the  little 
nose  stopped  quivering,  and  Mousy  sat  up  like  a 
squirrel  on  the  back  of  Trottie's  hand  and  nibbled 
away  until  the  piece  was  all  gone.  Each  one  of  the 
Band  took  turns  in  feeding  him  until  he  could  eat 


86  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

no  more.  Then  Trottie  put  him  back  in  the  deserted 
nest  and  replaced  the  box-cover. 

The  last  adventure  of  all  was  on  the  way  home. 
We  were  walking  along  an  abandoned  railroad  track, 
when  suddenly  a  flock  of  light  grayish  birds  flew  up 
all  together  out  of  the  dry  grass  and  lighted  in  a 
small  elm  tree  nearby.    As  we  watched  them,  they 
turned  and  all  flew  down  together.    Instantly  it  was 
as  if  a  mass  of  peach-blossoms  had  been  spilled  on 
the  withered  grass  and  white  snow.    Fully  a  third 
of  the  flock  had  crimson  crowns  and  rose-colored 
breasts,  while  at  the  base  of  the  streaked  gray-and- 
brown  backs  showed  a  tinge  of  pink.   It  was  our  first 
flock  of  the  lesser  redpolls  all  the  way  down  from  the 
Arctic  Circle.    They  were  restless  but  not  shy,  and 
sometimes  we  were  able  to  get  within  six  feet  of  them. 
They  would  continually  fly  back  and  forth  from  the 
tree  to   the  ground,  keeping  up   a  soft  chattering 
interspersed   with   little    tinkling   notes,    somewhat 
resembling  the  goldfinch  or  the  siskin  which  we  had 
left  behind  us  in  the  swamp.    Always,  when  they 
flew,  they  gave  a  little  piping  call,  and  their  field- 
mark  was  a  black  patch  under  the  throat  which 
could  be  seen  even  farther  than  their  red  polls  or  their 
rosy  breasts.    Their  beaks  were  light  and  very  point- 
ed, and  they  had  forked  tails  like  the  siskin. 

It  was  nearly  twilight  when  we  left  them  and  at 
last  started  home.  As  we  followed  a  fox-trail  in  and 
out  through  the  thickets  of  Fern  Valley,  we  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  large  brown  bird  on  the  ground.  At 
first  I  thought  that  it  was  some  belated  fox  sparrow; 


ZERO  BIRDS  37 

but  when  it  hopped  to  a  low  twig  and  then  raised 
its  tail  stiffly  as  I  watched,  I  recognized  the  hermit 
thrush,  which  always  betrays  itself  by  this  curious 
mannerism.  The  last  one  I  had  seen  was  singing  like 
Israfel,  in  the  twilight  of  a  Canadian  forest.  To-day 
the  little  singer  was  silent,  and  I  wondered  what  had 
kept  him  back  from  the  southland,  and  hoped  that 
he  would  be  able  to  win  through  the  bitter  days  still 
ahead  of  him.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  did,  for  the 
hermit  thrush  is  a  brave-hearted,  hardy,  self-reliant 
bird. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  before  we  finally  reached 
the  road.  Above  the  after-glow  showed  a  patch  of 
apple-green  sky  against  which  was  etched  the  faint- 
est, finest,  and  newest  of  crescent  moons.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  a  puff  of  wind  would  blow  her  like  a 
cobweb  out  of  the  sky.  Above  gleamed  Venus,  the 
evening  star,  all  silver-gold;  while  over  toward  the 
other  side  of  the  sky,  great  golden  Jupiter  echoed 
back  her  rays.  Below  the  green,  the  sky  was  a  mass 
of  dusky  gold  which  deepened  into  amber  and  then 
slowly  faded.  As  we  walked  home  through  the  twi- 
light, we  heard  the  last,  sweetest,  and  saddest  singer 
of  that  winter  day.  Through  the  air  shuddered  a 
soft  tremolo  call,  like  the  whistling  of  swift,  unseen 
wings  or  the  wail  of  a  little  lost  child.  It  was  the 
eerie  call  of  the  little  screech-owl  —  and  never  was 
a  bird  worse  named.  Answering,  I  brought  him  so 
close  to  us  that  we  could  see  his  ear-tufts  showing 
in  the  half-light.  All  the  way  home  he  followed  us, 
calling  and  calling  for  some  one  who  will  never  come. 


Ill 

SNOW  STORIES 

The  sun  went  down  in  a  spindrift  of  pale  gold  and 
gray,  which  faded  into  a  bank  of  lead-colored  cloud. 
The  next  morning  the  woods  and  fields  were  dumb 
with  snow.  No  blue  jays  squalled,  nor  white-skirted 
juncos  clicked;  neither  were  there  any  nuthatches 
running  gruntingly  up  and  down  the  tree-trunks. 
There  was  not  even  the  caw  of  a  passing  crow  from 
the  cold  sky.  As  I  followed  an  unbroken  wood-road, 
it  seemed  as  if  all  the  wild -folk  were  gone. 

The  snow  told  another  story.  On  its  smooth  sur- 
face were  records  of  the  lives  that  had  throbbed  and 
passed  and  ebbed  beneath  the  silent  trees.  Just 
ahead  of  me  the  road  crossed  a  circle  where,  a  half- 
century  ago,  the  charcoal-burners  had  set  the  round 
stamp  of  one  of  their  pits.  On  the  level  snow  there 
was  a  curious  trail  of  zigzag  tracks.  They  were  deep 
and  close-set,  and  made  by  some  animal  that  walked 
flat-footed.  I  recognized  the  trail  of  the  unhasting 
skunk.  Other  animals  may  jump  and  run  and  skurry 
through  life,  but  the  motto  of  the  skunk  is,  "Don't 
hurry,  others  will."  The  tracks  of  the  fore-paw, 
when  examined  closely,  showed  long  claw-marks 
which  were  absent  from  the  print  of  the  hind  feet. 
Occasionally  the  trail  changed  into  a  series  of  groups 
of  four  tracks  arranged  in  a  diagonal  straight  line, 


SNOW  STORIES  39 

which  marked  where  the  skunk  had  broken  into  the 
clumsy  gallop  which  is  its  fastest  gait.  Most  of  the 
time  this  particular  skunk  had  walked  in  a  slow  and 
dignified  manner.  By  the  edge  of  the  woods  he  had 
stopped  and  dug  deeply  into  a  rotten  log,  evidently 
looking  for  winter-bound  crickets  and  grubs. 

At  this  point  another  character  was  added  to  the 
plot  of  this  snow  story.  Approaching  at  right  angles 
to  the  trail  of  the  skunk  were  the  tracks  of  a  red  fox. 
I  knew  he  was  red,  because  that  is  the  only  kind  of 
fox  found  in  that  part  of  New  England.  I  knew  them 
to  be  the  tracks  of  a  fox,  because  they  ran  straight 
instead  of  spraddling  like  a  dog,  and  never  showed 
any  mark  of  a  dragging  foot.  The  trail  told  what 
had  happened.  The  first  tracks  were  the  far-apart 
ones  of  a  hunting  fox.  When  he  reached  the  skunk's 
trail,  the  foot-prints  became  close  together  and  ran 
parallel  to  the  trail  and  some  distance  away  from 
it.  The  fox  was  evidently  following  the  tracks  in  a 
thoughtful  mood.  He  was  a  young  fox,  or  he  would 
not  have  followed  them  at  all.  At  the  edge  of  the 
clearing  he  had  sighted  the  skunk  and  stopped,  for 
the  prints  were  melted  deep  into  the  snow.  Some- 
times an  old  and  hungry  fox  will  kill  a  skunk.  In 
order  to  do  this  safely,  the  spine  of  the  skunk  must 
be  broken  instantly  by  a  single  pounce,  thus  paralyz- 
ing the  muscles  on  which  the  skunk  depends  for  his 
defense;  for  the  skunk  invented  the  gas-attack  a 
million  years  before  the  Boche.  No  living  animal 
can  stay  within  range  of  the  choking  fumes  of  the 
liquid  musk  which  the  skunk  can  throw  for  a  distance 


40  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

of  several  feet.  The  snow  told  me  what  happened 
next.  It  was  a  sad  story.  The  fox  had  sprung  and 
landed  beside  the  skunk,  intending  to  snap  it  up 
like  a  rabbit.  The  skunk  snapped  first.  Around  the 
log  was  a  tangle  of  fox-tracks,  with  flurries  and  ridges 
and  holes  in  the  snow  where  the  fox  had  rolled  and 
burrowed.  Out  of  the  farther  side  a  series  of  tremen- 
dous bounds  showed  where  a  wiser  and  a  smellier  fox 
had  departed  from  that  skunk  with  an  initial  velocity 
of  close  to  one  mile  per  minute.  Finally,  out  of  the 
confused  circle  came  the  neat,  methodical  trail  of 
the  unruffled  skunk  as  he  moved  sedately  away. 
Probably  to  the  end  of  his  life  the  device  of  a  black- 
and-white  tail  rampant  will  always  be  associated  in 
that  fox's  mind  with  the  useful  maxim,  "Mind  your 
own  business. " 

Beyond  the  instructive  fable  of  the  fox  and  the 
skunk  showed  lace-work  patterns  and  traceries  in 
the  snow  where  scores  and  hundreds  of  the  mice- 
folk  had  come  up  from  their  tunnels  beneath  the 
whiteness,  and  had  frolicked  and  feasted  the  long 
night  through.  Some  of  these  tracks  were  in  little 
clumps  of  fours.  Each  group  had  a  five-fingered  pair 
of  large  prints  in  front  and  a  pair  of  four-fingered 
tracks  just  behind.  Down  the  middle  ran  a  tail- 
mark.  They  were  the  tracks  of  the  white-footed  or 
deer-mice.  These  were  the  same  little  robbers  which 
swarmed  into  my  winter  camp  and  gnawed  every- 
thing in  sight.  Even  a  flitch  of  bacon  hung  on  a 
cord  was  riddled  with  their  tiny  teeth-marks.  Only 
things  hung  on  wires  were  safe,  for  their  clinging  little 


SNOW  STORIES  41 

feet  cannot  find  a  footing  on  the  naked  iron.    One 
night  they  gnawed  a  ring  of  round  holes  through  the 

oTmme     T.   fShed  ^  hat  bel°ngbS  to  a  friend 
A  Tul  I  gUagC  he  USed  when  he  ^ked  at 

that  hat  the  next  morning  was  unfit  for  the  ears  of 

any  young  deer-mouse.   Another  time  the  deer-mice 
carried  off  about  a  peck  of  expensive  stuffing  from  a 
white  horse-hair  mattress,  which  I  had  imported  for 
the  personal  repose  of  my  aged  frame.    Although  I 
ransacked   that  cabin  from   turret  to  foundation- 
stone  I  could  never  find  a  trace  of  that  horse-hair 
In  spite  of  their  evil  ways  one  cannot  help  liking 
the  little  rascals.  They  have  such  bright,  black  eyes 
and  wear  such  snowy,  silky  waistcoats  and  stockings' 
•    11he1other  evening  I  sat  reading  alone  in  my  cabin 
in  the  heart  of  the  pine-barrens  before  a  roaring  fire 
Suddenly  I  felt  something  tickle  my  knee.    When  I 
moved  there  was  a  sudden  jump  and  a  deer-mouse 
sprang  out  from  my  trouser-leg  to  the  floor.    Then 
I  put  a  piece  of  bread  on  the  edge  of  the  wood-box. 
Although  I  saw  the  bread  disappear,  I  could  catch  no 
glimpse  of  what  took  it.   Finally  I  put  a  piece  on  my 
shoe,  and  after  running  back  and  forth  from  the 
wood-box  several  times,  Mr.  Mouse  at  last  became 
brave  enough  to  take  it.    When  he  found  that  I  did 
not  move,  he  sat  up  on  my  shoe  like  a  little  squirrel 
and  nibbled  away  at  his  crumb,  watching  me  all  the 
time  out  of  a  corner  of  his  black  eyes.    I  forgave 
him  my  friend's  hat,  and  was  almost  ready  to  overlook 
the  horse-hair  episode.    When  I  moved,  like  a  flash 
he  dashed  up  the  wall  by  the  fireplace,  and  hid 


42  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

behind  a  row  of  books  that  stood  on  the  red-oak 
plank  which  I  had  put  in  as  a  mantel-piece.  Un- 
fortunately he  had  forgotten  to  hide  his  long  silky 
tail.  It  hung  down  through  the  crack  between  the 
plank  and  the  rough  stone  of  the  chimney.  I  tip- 
toed over  and  gave  it  a  pinch  to  remind  him  to  meddle 
no  more  with  other  people's  mattresses. 

Returning  to  the  wood-road  —  on  that  morning, 
among  the  trails  of  the  deer-mice  were  the  more 
numerous  tracks  of  the  meadow-  or  field-mouse. 
They  show  no  tail-mark,  and  the  smaller  foot- 
prints were  not  side  by  side  as  with  the  deer-mice, 
but  almost  always  one  behind  the  other.  These 
smaller  paw-marks  among  all  jumping-animals,  such 
as  rabbits,  squirrels,  and  mice,  are  always  the  marks 
of  the  fore-paws.  The  larger  far-apart  tracks  mark 
where  the  hind  feet  of  the  jumper  come  down  in  front 
and  outside  of  the  fore-paws  as  he  jumps. 

On  that  day,  among  the  mouse-tracks  on  the  snow 
there  showed  another  faint  trail,  which  looked  like 
a  string  of  tiny  exclamation  marks  with  a  tail-mark 
between  them.  It  was  the  track  of  the  masked  shrew, 
the  smallest  mammal  of  the  Eastern  states.  This 
tiny  fierce  fragment  of  flesh  and  blood  is  only  about 
the  length  of  a  man's  little  finger.  So  swift  are  the 
functions  of  its  wee  body  that,  deprived  of  food  for 
six  hours,  the  shrew  starves  and  dies.  Many  of  them 
are  found  starved  to  death  on  the  melting  snow, 
having  crept  up  from  their  underground  burrows 
through  the  shafts  made  by  grass  and  weed-stems. 
Wandering  over  the  white  waste,  they  lose  their  way 


SNOW  STORIES  43 

and,  failing  to  find  food,  starve  before  the  sun  is  half 
way  down  the  sky.  As  the  shrew  does  not  hibernate, 
his  whole  life  is  a  swift  hunt  for  food;  for  every 
day  this  apparently  eyeless,  earless  animal  must  eat 
its  own  weight  in  flesh.  The  weasels  kill  from  blood- 
lust,  but  the  shrews  kill  for  their  very  life's  sake. 
It  is  a  fearsome  sight  to  see  a  shrew  attack  a  mouse. 
The  mouse  bites.  The  shrew  eats.  Boring  in,  the 
shrew  secures  a  grip  with  its  long,  crooked,  crocodile 
jaws  filled  with  fierce  teeth,  and  devours  its  way  like 
fire  through  skin  and  flesh  and  bone,  worrying  out 
and  swallowing  mouthfuls  of  blood  and  flesh  until 
the  mouse  falls  over  dead.  This  tiny  beastling,  the 
masked  shrew,  must  be  weighed  by  troy  weight,  and 
tips  a  jeweler's  scale  at  less  than  forty -five  grains. 

To-day  the  snow  said  the  shrew  had  been  an  un- 
bidden and  unwelcome  guest  at  the  mice-dinner. 
At  first  the  mice-trails  were  massed  together  in  a 
maze  of  tracks.  Where  the  trail  of  the  shrew  touched 
the  circle,  there  shot  out  separate  lines  of  mice- 
tracks,  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  with  the  paw- 
marks  far  apart,  showing  that  the  guests  had  all 
sprung  up  from  the  laden  table  of  the  snow  and 
dashed  off  in  different  directions.  The  shrew-track 
circled  faintly  here  and  there,  ran  for  some  distance 
in  a  long  straight  trail,  and  —  stopped.  The  Sword 
of  Damocles,  which  hangs  forever  over  the  head  of 
all  the  little  wild-folk,  had  fallen.  The  shrew  was 
gone.  A  tiny  fleck  of  blood  and  a  single  track  like  a 
great  X  on  the  snow  told  the  tale  of  his  passing. 
All  his  fierceness  and  courage  availed  nothing  when 


44  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  great  talons  of  the  flying  death  clamped  through 
his  soft  fur.  X  is  the  signature  of  the  owl-folk  just 
as  K  is  of  the  hawk-kind.  The  size  of  the  mark  in 
this  case  showed  that  the  killer  was  one  of  the  larger 
owls.  Later  in  the  winter  it  might  have  been  the  grim 
white  Arctic  owl,  which  sometimes  comes  down  from 
the  frozen  North  in  very  cold  weather.  So  early  in 
the  season,  however,  it  would  be  either  the  barred  or 
the  great  horned  owl. 

I  had  hunted  and  camped  and  fished  and  tramped 
all  through  this  hill-country,  and  although  I  had 
often  heard  at  night  the  "Whoo,  hoo-hoo,  hoo,  hoo" 
of  the  great  horned  owl,  which  keeps  always  the 
same  pitch,  I  had  never  heard  the  call  of  the  barred 
owl,  which  ends  in  a  falling  cadence  with  a  peculiar 
deep,  hollow  note.  So  I  decided  that  the  maker 
of  the  track  was  that  fierce  king  of  the  deep  woods, 
whose  head,  with  its  ear-tufts  or  horns,  may  be  seen 
peering  from  his  nest  of  sticks  on  the  mountainside 
in  a  high  tree-top  as  early  as  February.  On  wings  so 
muffled  by  soft  downy  feathers  as  to  be  absolutely 
noiseless,  he  had  swooped  down  in  the  darkness,  and 
the  tiny  bubble  of  the  shrew's  life  had  broken  into 
the  void. 

Beyond  this  point  the  road  wound  upward  toward 
the  slope  of  the  Cobble,  a  steep,  sharp-pointed  little 
hill  which  suddenly  thrust  itself  up  from  a  circle  of 
broad  meadows  and  flat  woodlands.  Time  was  when 
all  the  Cobble  was  owned  and  ploughed  clear  to  its 
peak  by  Great-great-uncle  Samuel,  who  had  a  hasty 
disposition  and  a  tremendous  voice,  and  ploughed 


DEATH-IN-THE-DARK  -  THE  GREAT  HORNED  OWL 


SNOW  STORIES  45 

with  two  yoke  of  oxen  which  required  a  considerable 
amount  of  conversation.  Tradition  has  it  that,  when 
discoursing  to  them,  he  could  be  heard  in  four'differ- 
ent  towns.    That  was  more  than  one  hundred  years 
ago,  and  the  Cobble  has  been  untouched  by  plough  or 
harrow  since,  and  to-day  is  wooded  to  the  very  top. 
Just  ahead  of  me  on  the  wood-road  showed  a  deep 
track  which  only  in  recent  years  has  been  seen  in 
Connecticut.    In  my  boyhood  a  deer- track  was  as 
unknown  as  that  of  a  wolf,  and  the  wolves  have  been 
gone  for  at  least  a  century.    Within  the  last  ten  years 
the  deer  have  come  back.    Last  summer  I  met  two 
on  the  roads  with  the  cows,  and  later  saw  seven  make 
an   unappreciated   visit    to  my   neighbor's  garden, 
where  they  seemed  to  approve  highly  of  her  lettuce.' 
Straight  up  the  hillside  ran  the  line  of  deeply  stamped 
little  hoof -marks.    The  trail  looks  like  a  sheep 's;  but 
the  front  of  each  track  ends  in  two  beautifully  curved 
sharp  points,  while  the  track  of  a  sheep  is  straighter 
and   blunter.     Nor  could  any  sheep  negotiate  that 
magnificent  bound  over  the  five-foot  rail  fence.  From 
take-off  to  where  the  four  small  hoofs  landed  together 
on  the  other  side  was  a  good  twenty  feet. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  fence  the  snow  had  drifted 
over  a  patch  of  sweet  fern  by  the  edge  of  the  wood- 
road  in  a  low  hummock.  As  I  plodded  along,  I  hap- 
pened to  strike  this  with  my  foot.  There  was  a  tre- 
mendous whirring  noise,  the  snow  exploded  all  over 
me,  and  out  burst  a  magnificent  cock  partridge,  as 
we  call  the  ruffed  grouse  in  New  England,  and 
whizzed  away  among  the  laurels  like  a  lyddite  shell. 


46  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

When  the  snowstorm  began,  he  had  selected  a  cozy 
spot  in  the  lee  of  the  sweet-fern  patch,  and  had  let 
himself  be  snowed  over.  The  warmth  of  his  body 
had  made  a  round,  warm  room,  and  with  plenty  of 
rich  fern-seeds  within  easy  reach,  he  was  prepared  to 
stay  in  winter  quarters  a  week,  if  necessary. 

The  stories  of  the  snow,  although  often  difficult 
to  read,  are  always  interesting.  After  the  winter 
fairly  sets  in,  we  read  nothing  about  the  Seven 
Sleepers  who  have  put  themselves  in  cold  storage 
until  spring.  The  bear,  the  raccoon,  the  woodchuck, 
the  skunk,  the  chipmunk,  and  the  jumping-mouse 
are  all  fast  asleep  underground.  The  last  sleeper 
never  touches  the  ground  when  awake,  and  sleeps 
swinging  up-side-down  by  the  long,  recurved  nails 
on  his  hind  feet.  He  is  the  bat,  who  lives  and  hunts 
in  the  air,  and  can  out-fly  any  bird  of  his  own  size. 

Perhaps  the  most  unexpected  of  the  snow  stories 
was  one  which  I  read  one  winter  day  when  out  for 
a  walk  with  the  Botanist.  Although  the  snow  was 
on  the  ground,  the  sky  was  as  blue  as  in  June,  as  the 
Botanist  and  I  swung  into  an  old  road  that  the  for- 
gotten feet  of  more  than  two  centuries  had  worn  deep 
below  its  banks.  It  was  opened  in  1691,  when  Will- 
iam and  Mary  were  king  and  queen,  and  Boston 
Tea  Parties  and  Liberty  Bells  and  Declarations  of 
Independence  were  not  yet  even  dreamed  of  in  the 
land. 

WTe  always  keep  a  bird-record  of  every  walk,  and 
note  down  the  names  of  the  sky -folk  whom  we  meet 
and  any  interesting  bit  of  news  that  they  may  have 


SNOW  STORIES  47 

for  us.  In  the  migration  season  there  is  great  rivalry 
as  to  who  shall  meet  the  greatest  number  from  the 
crowd  of  travelers  going  north.  Last  year  my  best 
day's  record  was  eighty-four  different  kinds  of 
birds,  which  beat  the  Botanist  by  two.  A  black  duck 
and  a  late  bay-breasted  warbler  were  the  cause  of 
his  undoing.  To  a  birdist  every  walk  is  full  of  possi- 
bilities. Any  day,  anywhere,  some  bird  may  flash 
into  sight  for  the  first  time. 

The  Botanist  has  pointed  out  to  me  not  fewer  than 
twenty  times  the  sacred  field  where,  one  bitter  win- 
ter day,  he  saw  his  first  (and  last)  flock  of  horned 
larks.  For  my  part,  I  never  fail  to  show  him  the  pig- 
nut hickory  where  my  first  golden-winged  warbler 
spoke  to  me  one  May  morning. 

To-day,  however,  our  walk  was  almost  a  birdless 
one.  We  heard  the  caw  of  the  crow,  the  only  bird- 
note  that  can  be  certainly  counted  on  for  every  day 
of  the  year.  We  saw  the  flutter  of  the  white  skirts 
of  the  j uncos.  From  a  blighted  chestnut  tree  we  saw 
a  bird  flash  down  into  the  dry  grass  from  his  perch 
on  a  dead  limb.  As  we  came  nearer,  he  glided  off  like 
a  little  aeroplane,  and  we  recognized  the  flight  and 
the  spotted  buff  waistcoat  of  the  sparrow-hawk 
hunting  meadow-mice. 

Later  in  the  morning  we  heard  the  "Pip,  pip," 
of  the  song  sparrow,  and  marked  the  black  spot 
on  his  breast.  Far  ahead,  across  a  snow-covered 
meadow,  a  bird  flew  dippingly  up  and  down.  He  had 
laid  aside  his  canary-yellow  and  black  suit,  but  his 
flight  bewrayed  the  goldfinch. 


48  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Passing  through  a  beechwood,  we  heard  a  sharp 
call,  and  saw  a  black-and-white  bird  back  down  a 
tree.  This  cautious  procedure  stamped  him  as  the 
downy  woodpecker.  Of  all  the  tree-climbers  only  the 
woodpeckers  back  down. 

Strangely  enough,  a  short  distance  farther  on  we 
heard  another  cry  like  that  of  the  downy  wood- 
pecker, only  harsher  and  wilder,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  hairy  woodpecker,  the  big  brother  of  the 
downy,  a  rarer,  larger  bird  of  the  deep  woods.  That 
ended  our  bird  list  —  a  paltry  seven  when  we  should 
have  had  a  score. 

We  passed  the  swamp  meadow  close  to  the  road, 
where  the  blue,  blind  gentian  grows  not  twenty-five 
yards  from  the  unseeing  eyes  of  the  travelers,  who 
pass  there  every  October  day  and  never  suspect  what 
a  miracle  of  color  lies  hidden  in  the  tangle  of  marsh- 
grass  beside  their  path.  The  Botanist  with  many 
misgivings  had  shown  me  the  secret.  For  three  years 
we  had  tramped  together  before  he  held  me  to  be 
worthy  to  share  it. 

Farther  on  we  crossed  a  plateau  where  a  series  of 
stumps  showed  where  a  grove  of  chestnut  trees  had 
grown  in  the  days  before  the  Blight.  Suddenly 
from  under  our  very  feet  dashed  a  brown  rabbit, 
his  white  powder-puff  gleaming  at  every  jump. 
The  lithe,  lean,  springing  body  seemed  the  very  em- 
bodiment of  speed.  There  are  few  animals  that  can 
pass  a  rabbit  in  a  hundred  yards,  even  our  cotton- 
tail, the  slowest  of  his  family.  He  is,  however,  only 
a  sprinter.   In  a  long-distance  event  the  fox,  the  dog, 


SNOW  STORIES  49 

and  even  the  dogged,  devilish  little  weasel  can  run 
him  down. 

We  looked  at  the  form  where  he  had  been  lying. 
It  was  a  wet  little  hollow  made  in  the  dank  grass, 
with  only  a  few  dripping  leaves  for  a  mattress  —  a 
forlorn  bed.  Yet  Runny-Bunny,  as  some  children  I 
know  have  named  him,  seems  to  rest  well  in  his  open- 
air  sleeping  porch,  and  even  lies  abed  there. 

One  far-away  snowy  day  in  February  two  of  us 
stole  a  few  moments  from  the  bedside  of  a  sick 
child  —  how  long,  long  ago  it  all  seems  now !  —  and 
walked  out  among  the  wild-folk  to  forget.  In  a  bleak 
meadow,  right  at  our  feet,  we  saw  a  rabbit  crouched, 
nearly  covered  by  the  snow.  He  had  been  snowed 
under  days  before,  but  had  slept  out  the  storm 
until  half  of  his  fleecy  coverlet  had  melted  away. 

He  lay  so  still  that  at  first  we  thought  he  was 
dead;  but  on  looking  closely,  we  could  see  the  quick 
throbbing  of  his  frightened  little  heart.  There  was 
not  a  quiver  from  his  taut  body,  or  a  blink  from  his 
wide-open  eyes.  He  lay  motionless  until  my  hand 
stroked  gently  his  wet  fur.  Then,  indeed,  he  ex- 
ploded like  a  brown  bomb-shell  from  the  snow,  and 
we  laughed  and  laughed,  the  first  and  last  time  for 
many  a  weary  week. 

Years  later,  I  was  coasting  down  the  meadow-hill 
with  one  of  my  boys;  and,  as  the  sled  came  to  a  stop, 
a  rabbit  burst  out  of  the  snow,  almost  between  the 
runners.  The  astonished  boy  rolled  into  a  drift  as  if 
blown  clear  off  his  sled  by  the  force  of  the  explosion. 

To-day,  as  the  Brownie  sped  over  the  soft  snow,  we 


50  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

could  see  how  its  tracks  in  series  of  fours  were  made. 
At  every  jump  the  long  hind-legs  thrust  themselves 
far  in  front.  They  made  the  two  far-apart  tracks  in 
the  snow,  while  the  close-set  fore-paws  made  the 
nearby  tracks.  Accordingly  a  rabbit  is  always  trav- 
eling in  the  direction  of  the  far-apart  tracks,  quite 
contrary  to  what  most  of  us  would  suppose. 

It  is  the  same  way  with  celestial  rabbits.  Look 
any  clear  winter  night  down  below  the  belt  of  Orion, 
and  you  will  see  a  great  rabbit-track  in  the  sky  — 
the  constellation  of  Lepus,  the  Hare,  whose  track 
leads  away  from  the  Great  Dog  with  baleful  Sirius 
gleaming  green  in  his  fell  jaw. 

From  the  rabbit-meadow  we  followed  devious 
paths  down  through  Fern  Valley,  which  in  summer- 
time is  a  green  mass  of  cinnamon  fern,  interrupted 
fern,  Christmas  fern,  brake,  regal  fern,  and  half  a 
score  of  others.  In  the  midst  of  the  marsh  were  rows 
of  the  fruit-stems  of  the  sensitive  fern,  which  is  the 
first  to  blacken  before  the  frost.  These  were  heavy 
with  rich  wine-brown  seed-pods,  filled  with  seeds 
like  fine  dust.  They  had  an  oily,  nutty  taste;  and  it 
would  seem  as  if  some  hungry  mouse  or  bird  would 
find  them  good  eating  during  famine  times.  Yet  so 
far  as  I  have  observed  they  are  never  fed  upon. 

Along  the  side  of  the  path  were  thickets  of  spice- 
bush,  whose  crushed  leaves  in  summer  have  an 
incense  sweeter  than  burns  in  any  censer  of  man's 
making.  To-day  I  broke  one  of  the  brittle  branches, 
to  nibble  the  perfumed  bark,  and  found  at  the  end 
of  a  twig,  pretending  to  be  a  withered  leaf,  a  cocoon 


SNOW  STORIES  51 

of  the  prometheus  moth.    The  leaf  had  been  folded 
together,  lined  with  spun  silk,  and  lashed  so  strongly 
that  the  twig  would  break  before  the  silken  cable.  " 
We  passed  through  a  clump  of    staghorn  sumac 
with   branches  like  antlers,   bearing  at   their  ends 
heavy  masses  of  fruit-clusters  made  up  of  hundreds 
of  dark,  velvety  crimson  berries,  each  containing  a 
brown  seed.    The  pulp  of  these  berries  is  intensely 
sour,  its  flavor  giving  the  sumac  its  other  name  of 
"vinegar   plant."     These   red    clusters    crushed   in 
sweetened  water  make  a  very  good  imitation  of  the 
red  circus-lemonade  of  our  childhood.   The  staghorn 
is  not  to  be  confounded  with  its  treacherous  sister, 
the  poison  sumac,  with  her  corpse-colored  berries.' 
She  is  a  vitriol-thrower,  and  with  her  death-pale  bark 
and  arsenic-green  leaves,  always  makes  me  think  of 
one  of  those  haggard,  horrible  women  of  the  Terror. 

It  was  in  Fern  Valley  that  the  Botanist  made  his 
discovery  for  the  day.  It  was  only  a  tree,  and  more- 
over a  tree  that  he  must  have  passed  many  times 
before.  Only  to-day,  however,  did  it  catch  his  eye. 
The  bark  was  that  of  an  oak,  but  the  leaves,  which 
clung  thick  and  brown  to  the  limb,  were  long,  with  a 
straight  edge  something  like  the  leaves  of  the  willow- 
oak,  only  broader  and  larger.  It  was  no  other  than 
the  laurel-oak,  a  tree  which  by  all  rights  belonged 
hundreds  of  miles  to  the  south  of  us. 

He  walked  gloatingly  around  his  discovery,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  I  could  drag  him  on.  There- 
after he  gave  me  a  masterly  discourse,  some  forty 
minutes  in  duration,  on  the  life-history  of  the  oaks, 


52  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  propounded  several  ingenious  theories  to  account 
for  the  presence  of  this  strange  species.  This  dis- 
course continued  until  we  reached  the  historic  white 
oak  near  the  end  of  the  valley,  where  the  Botanist 
once  found  a  flock  of  bay-breasted  warblers  in  the 
middle  of  a  rainstorm;  and  again  I  heard  the  story 
of  that  day. 

Through  the  valley  flowed  a  little  stream,  and  the 
snow  along  its  banks  told  of  the  goings  and  comings 
of  the  wild-folk.  Gray  squirrels,  red  squirrels,  musk- 
rats,  rabbits,  mice,  foxes,  weasels,  all  had  passed 
and  repassed  along  these  banks. 

To  me  the  most  interesting  trail  was  that  of  a 
blarina  shrew.  His  track  in  the  snow  is  a  strange 
one.  It  is  a  round,  tunnel-like  trail,  like  that  of 
some  large  caterpillar,  with  the  trough  made  by  the 
wallowing  little  body  filled  with  tiny  alternate  tracks 
—  one  of  the  strangest  of  all  the  winter  trails. 

I  could  obtain  very  little  enthusiasm  from  the  Bot- 
anist over  blarinas.  He  still  babbled  of  laurel-leafed 
oaks  and  similar  frivolities.  Even  the  crowning  event 
of  the  walk  left  him  cold.  It  came  on  the  home- 
stretch. We  were  passing  through  the  last  pasture 
before  reaching  the  humdrum  turnpike  which  led 
to  the  tame-folk.  Suddenly  in  the  snow  I  saw  a 
strange  trail.  It  was  evidently  made  by  a  jumper, 
but  not  one  whose  track  I  knew.  I  followed  it,  until 
among  the  leaves  in  a  bank  something  moved. 
Before  my  astonished  eyes  hopped  falteringly,  but 
bravely,  a  speckled  toad. 

The  winter  sun  shone  palely  on  his  brown  back 


FLYER,   THE  SQUIRREL 


SNOW  STORIES  53 

still  crusted  with  the  earth  of  his  chill  home.  Down 
under  the  leaves  and  the  frozen  ground  he  had  heard 
the  call,  and  struggled  to  the  surface,  expecting  to 
find  spring  awaiting  him.  Two  jumps,  however, 
had  landed  him  in  a  snowbank.  It  was  a  disillusion, 
and  Mr.  Toad  winked  his  mild  brown  eyes  piteous- 
ly.  He  struggled  bravely  to  get  out,  but  every  jump 
plunged  him  deeper  into  the  snow.  His  movements 
became  feebler  as  the  little  warmth  his  cold  blood 
contained  oozed  out. 

Just  as  he  was  settling  despairingly  back  into  the 
crystallized  cold,  I  rescued  him.  He  was  too  far  gone 
even  to  move,  for  cold  spells  quick  death  to  the 
reptile  folk.  Only  his  blinking  beautiful  eyes,  like 
lignite  flecked  with  gold,  and  the  slow  throbbing  of 
his  mottled  breast,  showed  that  life  was  still  in  him. 
He  nestled  close  in  my  hand,  willing  to  occupy  it 
until  warm  weather. 

I  back-tracked  him  from  his  faltering  efforts,  and 
where  his  first  lusty  jump  showed  on  the  thawing 
ground  I  found  his  hibernaculum.  It  was  only  a  little 
hollow,  scarcely  three  inches  deep,  under  sodden 
leaves  and  wet  earth,  and  cheerless  enough,  accord- 
ing to  mammalian  ideas.  It  was  evidently  home  for 
Mr.  Toad,  and  when  I  set  him  therein,  he  scrambled 
relievedly  under  some  of  the  loose  wet  leaves  which 
had  fallen  back  into  his  nest.  I  piled  a  generous 
measure  of  dripping  leaves  and  moist  earth  over  his 
warted  back.  It  may  have  been  imagination,  but  I 
fancied  that  the  last  look  I  had  from  his  bright  eyes 
was  one  of  gratitude.    The  Botanist  scoffed  at  the 


54  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

idea,  for  toads,  like  pine-snakes,  convey  absolutely 
no  appeal  to  his  narrow,  flower-bound  nature. 

I  have  erected  a  monument  in  the  shape  of  a  chest- 
nut stake  beside  Mr.  Toad's  winter  residence,  and  I 
strongly  suspect  that  he  will  be  the  last  of  his  family 
to  get  up  when  the  spring  rising-bell  finally  rings. 

"There's  positively  nothing  to  this  early-rising 
business,"  I  can  hear  him  telling  his  friends  at  the 
Puddle  Club  in  April.  "Look  at  what  happened  to 
me.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  a  well-meaning  giant,  I 
would  have  caught  my  death  of  cold  from  getting 
out  of  bed  too  soon.    Never  again!" 

Our  calendar-makers  use  red  letters  to  mark  special 
days.  Personally,  I  prefer  orchids  and  birds  and 
sunrises  and  nests  and  snakes  and  similar  markers. 
I  have  in  my  diary  "The  Day  of  the  Prothonotary 
Warbler,"  "The  Day  of  the  Henslow's  Sparrow's 
Nest"  (that  was  a  day!),  "The  Day  of  the  Fringed 
Gentian,"  and  many,  many  others.  But  always  and 
forever  that  snowy  21st  of  December  is  marked  in 
my  memory  as  "The  Day  of  the  Early  Toad." 

Once  more  I  was  climbing  the  Cobble.  The  wood- 
road  on  which  I  started  had  narrowed  to  a  path. 
Overhead  masses  of  rock  showed  through  the  snow, 
and  above  them  were  the  dark  depths  of  the  Bear- 
Hole  where  Great-great-uncle  Jake  had  once  shot 
with  his  flintlock  musket  the  largest  bear  ever  killed 
in  that  part  of  the  state.  It  was  here  at  the  cliff 
side  that  Shahrazad  snow  told  me  another  story. 

Along  the  edge  of  the  slope  ran  a  track  made  up  of 
four  holes  in  the  snow.    The  front  ones  were  far 


SNOW  STORIES  55 

apart  and  the  back  ones  near  apart.  Occasionally, 
instead  of  four  holes,  five  would  show  in  the  snow, 
and  the  position  of  the  marks  was  reversed.  A  little 
farther  on,  and  the  trail  changed.  The  two  near- 
apart  tracks  were  now  in  a  perpendicular  line  instead 
of  side  by  side.  To  Chingachgook,  or  Deerslayer, 
or  Daniel  Boone,  or  any  other  well-known  tracker, 
the  trail  would  have,  of  course,  been  an  open  book. 
But  it  had  taken  an  amateur  trailer  like  myself  some 
years  to  be  able  to  read  that  snow  record  aright. 
The  trail  was  that  of  a  cottontail  rabbit.  At  first 
he  had  been  hopping  contentedly  along,  with  an  eye 
open  for  anything  eatable  in  the  line  of  winter 
vegetables.  The  far-apart  tracks  were  the  paw-marks 
of  the  big  hind-legs,  which  came  in  front  of  the  marks 
made  by  the  fore-paws  as  they  touched  the  ground 
at  every  hop.  The  five  marks  were  where  he  had  sat 
down  to  look  around.  The  fifth  mark  was  the  mark 
of  his  stubby  tail,  and  when  he  stopped,  the  little 
fore-paws  made  the  near-apart  marks  in  front  of 
the  far-apart  marks  of  his  hind-feet,  instead  of  be- 
hind them  as  when  he  hopped. 

Suddenly  the  rabbit  detected  something  alarming 
coming  from  behind,  for  the  sedate  hops  changed 
into  startled  bounds.  A  little  farther  on  the  trail 
said  that  the  rabbit  had  caught  sight  of  its  pursuer 
as  it  ran;  for  a  rabbit  by  the  position  of  its  eyes  sees 
backward  and  forward  equally  well.  The  tracks 
showed  a  frantic  burst  of  speed.  In  an  effort  to  get 
every  possible  bit  of  leverage,  the  fore-legs  were 
twisted  so  that  they  struck  the  ground  one  behind 


56  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  other,  which  accounted  for  the  last  set  of  marks 
perpendicular  to  those  in  front.  A  line  of  tracks 
which  came  from  a  pile  of  stones,  and  paralleled 
the  rabbit's  trail,  told  the  whole  story.  The  paw- 
marks  were  small  and  dainty,  but  beyond  each 
pad-print  were  the  marks  of  fierce  claws.  No  wonder 
the  rabbit  ran  wild  when  it  first  scented  its  enemy, 
and  then  saw  its  long  slim  body  bounding  along  be- 
hind, white  as  snow  except  for  the  black  tip  of  its  tail. 

It  was  the  weasel,  whose  long  body  moves  like  the 
uncoiling  of  a  steel  spring.  A  weasel  running  looks 
like  a  gigantic  inch-worm  that  bounds  instead  of 
crawls.  Speed,  however,  is  not  what  the  little  white 
killer  depends  on  for  its  prey.  It  can  follow  a  trail 
by  scent  better  than  any  hound,  climb  trees  nearly 
as  well  as  a  squirrel;  and  if  the  animal  it  is  chasing 
goes  into  a  burrow,  it  has  gone  to  certain  death. 
The  rabbit's  only  chance  would  have  been  a  straight- 
away run  at  full  speed  for  miles  and  hours.  In  this 
way  it  could  probably  have  tired  out  the  weasel, 
which  is  a  killer,  not  a  runner,  by  profession.  A 
rabbit,  however,  like  the  fox,  never  runs  straight. 
Round  and  round  in  great  circles  it  runs  about  its 
feeding-ground,  of  which  it  knows  all  the  paths  and 
runways  and  burrows.  Against  a  dog  or  fox  these 
are  safer  tactics  than  exploring  new  territory. 
Against  a  weasel  they  are  usually  fatal. 

It  was  easy  to  see  on  the  snow  what  had  happened. 
At  first,  when  the  rabbit  saw  the  weasel  looping 
along  its  trail  like  a  hunting  snake,  it  had  started  off 
with  a  sprint  that  in  a  minute  carried  it  out  of  sight. 


SNOW  STORIES  57 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  Although  a  rabbit 
can  run  for  an  hour  at  nearly  top  speed,  and  in  this 
case  had  every  reason  to  run,  after  a  half-mile  of  rapid 
circling  and  doubling,  the  trail  changed  and  showed 
that  the  rabbit  was  plodding  along  as  if  paralyzed. 

One  of  the  weird  and  unexplained  facts  in  nature 
is  the  strange  power  that  a  weasel  appears  to  have 
over  all  the  smaller  animals.  Many  of  them  simply 
give  up  and  wait  for  death  when  they  find  that  a 
weasel  is  on  their  trail.  A  red  squirrel,  which  could 
easily  escape  through  the  tree-tops,  sometimes  be- 
comes almost  hysterical  with  fright,  and  has  been 
known  to  fall  out  of  a  tree-top  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of 
terror.  Even  the  rat,  which  is  a  cynical,  practical 
animal,  with  no  nerves,  and  a  bitter,  brave  fighter 
when  fight  it  must,  loses  its  head  when  up  against  a 
weasel.  A  friend  of  mine  once  saw  a  grim,  gray  old 
fellow  run  squealing  aloud  across  a  road  from  a  wood- 
pile and  plunge  into  a  stone  wall.  A  moment  later  a 
weasel  in  its  reddish  summer  coat  came  sniffing 
along  the  rat's  trail  and  passed  within  a  yard  of  him. 

This  night  the  rabbit,  with  every  chance  for  es- 
cape, began  to  run  slowly  and  heavily,  as  if  in  a  night- 
mare, watching  the  while  its  back  trail.  And  when 
the  weasel  came  in  sight  again,  the  trail  stopped  as 
the  rabbit  crouched  in  the  snow  waiting  for  the  end. 
It  came  mercifully  quick.  When  the  weasel  saw  the 
rabbit  had  stopped,  its  red  eyes  flamed,  and  with  a 
flashing  spring  its  teeth  and  claws  were  at  poor 
bunny's  throat.  There  was  a  plaintive  whinnying 
cry,  and  the  reddened  snow  told  the  rest. 


58  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

So  the  last  story  of  the  snow  ended  in  tragedy, 
as  do  nearly  all  true  stories  of  the  wild-folk.  Yet 
they  need  not  our  pity.  Better  a  thousand  times 
the  quick  passing  at  the  end  of  a  swift  run  or  of  a 
brave  fight,  than  the  long,  long  weariness  of  pain  and 
sickness  by  which  we  humans  so  often  claim  our 
immortality. 


IV 
A  RUNAWAY  DAY 

It  is  a  wise  man  who  knows  when  to  run  away. 
To  quote  rightly  the  words  of  a  great  poet,  whose 
name  has  escaped  me: — 

He  who  works  and  runs  away 
May  live  to  work  another  day. 

So  it  was  that,  like  Christian  of  old,  I  suddenly 
decided  to  escape  for  my  life  from  my  city. 

There  were  many  reasons.  It  was  a  holiday. 
Then  the  sun  rose  on  one  of  the  most  perfect  days 
that  ever  dawned  since  the  calendar  was  invented. 
Furthermore,  there  was  the  thought  of  a  little 
cabin  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  pine  barrens.  So  I 
ran  away  through  snow-covered  meadows  and  silent 
woods  and  past  farmhouses  that  were  old  when  this 
republic  was  first  born,  until  my  law  offices  and  the 
city  and  the  noise  and  the  dust  and  the  smoke  were 
all  behind  the  horizon. 

An  hour  later  I  was  following  a  little  path  that 
zigzagged  back  and  forth  through  thickets  of  scrub 
oak  and  stiff  rows  of  pitch  pines.  Above  the  trees 
was  the  rush  of  wings.  The  upper  air  was  filled  with 
the  victorious  sound  of  going  that  heartened  David 
from  the  tops  of  the  mulberry  trees  in  that  dread 
valley  of  Rephaim.   Perhaps  it  was  the  wind ;  but  why 


60  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

did  not  the  tree-tops  sway  instead  of  standing  in 
frozen  rows?  The  sky  above  was  the  color  of  the 
eggs  of  the  wood  thrush,  a  tender  blue  faintly  washed 
with  white.  As  the  sun  rose  higher  and  higher,  the 
color  deepened  to  that  bluest  of  blues  which  burns 
in  May  under  the  breast  of  the  brooding  catbird. 
Filtered  through  frost,  the  sunlight  shone,  intensely 
bright  but  without  heat.  The  air  was  full  of  the 
spicery  of  a  million  pine  trees.  With  every  breath 
it  went  tingling  through  my  blood,  carrying  with  it 
the  joy  of  the  open  and  the  freedom  of  the  barrens. 

At  last  I  came  to  the  cabin.  It  is  set  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  brownest,  crookedest,  sweetest  stream  in 
the  world  —  the  cedar-stained  Rancocas.  The  wide 
porch  overhangs  the  water,  and  over  the  doorway  is  a 
tiny  horseshoe,  which  was  dug  out  of  the  bog  at 
Upper  Mill,  undoubtedly  cast  by  some  fairy  steed. 
One  whole  side  of  the  cabin  is  taken  up  by  an  arched 
fireplace  built  of  brown  and  yellow  and  red  sand- 
stone, the  only  stone  that  can  be  found  in  the  Barrens. 
Squat  and  curly,  two  massive  andirons,  hammered 
out  of  bog  iron,  stand  among  the  ashes.  They  have 
a  story  all  their  own. 

Five  miles  through  the  woods  is  Upper  Mill, 
which  is  not  a  mill  at  all,  but  marks  the  place  where, 
a  century  ago,  one  stood.  The  only  occupied  house 
there  is  a  log  cabin  built  of  imperishable  white- 
cedar  logs  in  1720,  the  date  still  showing  on  one  of 
the  logs.  Charlie  Rogers  lives  there  alone.  It  used 
to  be  an  old  tavern  on  the  cattle-road  from  Perth 
Amboy.   Every  now  and  then  Charlie  finds  old  coins, 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  61 

King  George  III  pennies  and  farthings,  and  the  rare 
New  Jersey  pennies  which  were  coined  only  during 
two  years,  and  which  bear  a  plough  and  the  old 
name  of  New  Jersey  —  Nova  Csesarea.  One  day, 
when  I  was  gossiping  with  Charlie,  I  told  hirn  that, 
if  he  took  up  the  old  dirt  floor  and  sifted  it  through  an 
ash-sifter  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  he  might 
find  a  further  store  of  rare  coins.  He  took  my  advice, 
and  the  first  treasure  he  uncovered  was  these  andirons 
buried  where  once  had  been  a  hearth.  Charlie  gave 
them  to  me,  and  they  hold  up  logs  now  as  well  as 
they  did  two  hundred  years  ago. 

As  I  slipped  into  a  well-worn  suit  of  khaki,  all  the 
worry  of  the  month  fell  off  my  shoulders  and  rolled 
down  the  bank  and  was  drowned  in  the  golden 
water.  Tucking  a  pair  of  field-glasses  into  one  pocket 
and  a  package  of  lunch  into  the  other,  I  started  off 
on  an  exploring  trip.  In  the  barrens  everywhere 
are  paths  that  wind  for  miles  in  and  out  among  the 
trees  and  along  the  edges  of  brooks  and  bogs.  Who 
made  them?  Who  keeps  them  open?  No  one  knows. 
I  have  been  able  to  follow  a  few  of  them  out  to  the 
end.  One  leads  to  Ong's  Hat,  a  little  clearing  in  the 
heart  of  the  woods,  where  grows  an  enormous  white- 
oak  tree.  A  century  and  a  half  ago  Ong,  the  Indian, 
lived  there.  One  day  he  disappeared.  Nothing  was 
ever  found  except  his  blood-stained  hat.  Then  there 
is  the  path  that  leads  to  Sheep-Pen  Hill,  where 
seven  empty  houses  and  a  well  stand  deserted  and 
alone.  Others  lead  to  Gum  Sprung,  which,  being 
translated,  means  Gum-Tree  Cove,  and   to  Double 


m  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Trouble  and  Mount  Misery,  where  the  rattlesnake 
den  is,  and  Apple-Pie  Hill,  and  Friendship,  and  a 
host  of  other  places  that  I  have  not  explored. 

To-day  I  walked  for  miles  and  miles  through 
stretches  of  low,  gleaming  pines  and  past  pools  set  in 
golden  sphagnum  moss.  The  wind  had  died  down, 
and  the  silence  seeped  in  and  carried  with  it  the  com- 
fort of  the  wilderness.  The  first  friend  I  met  was  a 
little  bird  that  dived  like  a  mouse  into  a  pile  of  brush. 
I  saw  a  brook,  and  hurried  to  it,  knowing  that  if 
the  bird  were  a  winter  wren  it  could  not  possibly 
keep  from  running  along  the  edges  of  that  brook. 
Sure  enough,  in  a  minute  I  saw  it  darting  in  and  out 
of  holes  and  with  cocked  tail  curtsying  on  the  stones. 
It  is  the  next  to  the  smallest  of  our  five  wrens  —  only 
the  rare  short-billed  marsh  wren  is  tinier. 

To-day  all  through  the  tree-tops  I  heard  the 
high-pitched  tiny  notes  of  that  tiny  bird,  the  golden- 
crowned  kinglet.  Its  forked  tail,  striped  head,  and 
wing-bars  are  the  field-marks  by  which  it  can  be  told 
in  spite  of  its  quick  movements.  It  is  the  third 
smallest  of  all  our  birds:  only  the  hummingbird  and 
the  short-billed  marsh  wren  are  smaller.  Beyond 
the  kinglet  I  heard  the  clicking  alarm-notes  and  saw 
a  flutter  of  the  white  skirts  of  a  junco  as  it  flew  up 
ahead  of  me,  showing  its  white  tail-feathers,  while 
in  the  woods  a  silver-and-blue  bird  sprang  out  of  the 
bushes,  for  a  wonder  without  a  sound.  It  was  the 
blue  jay,  which  scolds  and  squalls  all  day  long. 
Overhead,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  cold,  the  grim  black 
buzzards,  with  their  fringed  wings  and  black-and- 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  63 

gray  undersides,  wheeled  in  the  air,  while  the  smaller 
crow  flapped  laboriously  beneath  them. 

Near  a  stream  I  came  upon  a  patch  of  the  rare 
climbing  fern,  an  evergreen  fern  which  climbs  like  a 
vine  and  has  flat,  veined  leaves  that  look  like  little 
green  hands  with  four  and  five  fingers.  The  stem  is 
like  drawn  copper  wire.  Beyond  the  fern  I  met 
the  pale-gray  poison  sumac,  with  its  corpse-colored 
berries  growing  out  from  the  sides  of  the  twigs  instead 
of  from  the  end,  as  do  the  berries  of  the  harmless 
varieties. 

I  followed  Pond-Lily  Path  through  the  white  sand 
that  in  the  springtime  is  all  golden  with  barrens- 
heather.  It  winds  in  and  out  through  the  scattered 
clumps  of  low  pitch  pine  and  thickets  of  scrub  oak, 
and  finally  leads  to  a  still  brook  all  afloat  in  midsum- 
mer with  pond  lilies.  When  the  path  reached  the 
bogs,  which  to-day  were  frozen  solid,  I  turned  in, 
crossing  them  on  the  snow-covered  ice.  Everywhere 
were  lines  of  four-toed  crow  tracks,  and  here  and 
there  were  rabbit  trails,  a  series  of  four  round  holes 
in  the  snow. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  followed  my  own  tracks, 
I  found  that  for  more  than  a  mile  I  had  been  trailed 
by  some  animal  making  a  series  of  little  paw-prints 
like  those  of  a  small  cat,  except  that  they  were  close 
together  and  sometimes  doubled,  showing  where  the 
animal  had  given  sudden  bounds.  It  was  none  other 
than  the  trail  of  a  weasel,  probably  the  long-tailed 
variety,  although  that  is  rare  in  the  barrens.  Like 
others  of  his  family,   this  animal  oftens  follows  a 


G4  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURE- 

man's  tracks  for  a  long  distance.,  perhaps  out  of 
curiosity,  perhaps  in  the  hope  of  finding  food.  As  I 
looked  at  the  trail  of  this  little  killer.  I  was  glad  that 
he  was  not  larger.  If  weasels,  or  those  other  killers, 
the  shrews.,  were  as  large  as  a  dog.,  no  man's  life 
would  be  safe  out  of  doors. 

I  explored  so  far  that  the  sun  had  set  before  I 
turned  back  for  the  cabin.  Suddenly,  from  far  over 
where  the  tree-trunks  were  inked  black  against  the 
golden  afterglow.  I  heard  a  hoot,  deep  rather  than 
loud.  "Hoo,  hoo-hoo,  hoo,  hoo!"  it  went,  and  some- 
times. "Hoo-hoo-hoo!"  Usually.,  though,  the  second 
note  was  doubled.  It  meant  that  the  great  horned  owl 
with  its  speckled  gray  back  and  white  collar  was 
hunting  rabbits  through  the  silent  woods.  If  it  had 
been  the  barred  owl.  the  third  note  would  have 
been  doubled  and  the  last  note  would  have  had  a 
drop  in  its  caden 

In  the  frosty  twilight  I  hurried  along  the  winding 
path,  back  to  the  cabin  and  a  long,  dreamy  evening 
before  the  roaring  fire.  First  came  a  wonderful  ex- 
hibition of  free-hand  cooking.  Then  I  piled  the  great 
fireplace  well  up  the  chimney  with  masses  of  pitch- 
pine  knots  and  stumps  that  I  had  dug  up  in  the  dry 
bogs.  All  of  the  sapwood  had  decayed.,  leaving 
nothing  except  the  resinous  bones  of  the  fallen  trees. 
They  burned  at  the  touch  of  a  match,  with  a  red 
smoky  flame.  Above  them  I  banked  dry  lengths  of 
swamp  maple  and  post  oak.    Then,  drawing  up  a 

rt  rocker  well  within  the  circle  of  the  heat.  I  settled 
D  to  read  and  dream  in  front  of  the  red  coals. 


THE   LONG-TAILED    WEASEL 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  65 

There  is  nothing  in  life  sweeter  than  a  little  lone- 
liness.   Nowadays  we  live  and  die  in  crowds,  like 
ants  and  bees,  so  that  solitude  is  likely  to  become  one 
of  the  lost  arts.   No  book  ever  tastes  so  well  as  before 
a  great  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  wilderness,  even  if  the 
wilderness  be  only  a  few  miles  away.    In  my  cabin 
I  keep  a  special  shelf  of  the  books  which  I  have 
always  wanted  to  read,  and  for  which  in  some  way 
I  never  find  time  in  the  hurry  of  everyday  life.   That 
evening  I  sat  for  long  over  the  Saga  of  Burnt  Njal, 
and  read  again  of  the  bill  of  Gunnar  and  the  grim 
axe,  the  "ogress  of  war,"  of  Skarphedinn  and  the 
sword  of  the  dauntless  Kari.    In  the  flickering  fire- 
light I  pictured  the  death-fight  of  Gunnar  of  Lithend, 
one  of  the  four  great  fights  of  one  man  against  a 
multitude  in  history,  and  heard  again  Hallgarda,  the 
fair  and  the  false,  forsake  him  to  his  death. 

"Give  me  two  locks  of  thy  hair,"  said  Gunnar 
to  Hallgarda,  when  that  his  bow-string  was  cut  in 
twain;    "and  ye  two,  my  mother  and  thou,  twist 
them  together  into  a  bow-string  for  me." 
"Does  aught  lie  on  it?"  she  says. 
"My  life  lies  on  it,"  he  said. 

"I  will  not  do  it,"  said  Hallgarda;  "for  know  ye 
now  that  I  never  cared  a  whit  for  thee." 

At  last  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  I  went  out  to 
get  a  drink  of  the  most  wonderful  water  in  the  world. 
Near  the  cabin  a  little  bog  was  frozen  over  a  foot 
deep  with  white  bubbled  ice.  In  one  place  a  round, 
black  hole  had  betrayed  the  secret  spring  that 
flooded  the  whole  swale.   In  the  coldest  weather  this 


66  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

spring-hole  remains  unfrozen.  I  dipped  up  a  pitcher- 
ful  of  the  soft,  spicy  cedar-water  pulsing  from  the 
very  heart  of  the  marsh.  The  Pinies  have  a  saying 
that  he  who  drinks  cedar-water  will  always  come 
back  to  the  barrens,  no  matter  how  far  afield  he  may 
wander. 

As  I  came  to  the  porch-steps,  in  the  dark  stream 
just  below  me  I  saw  a  strange  thing.  Underneath  the 
water  a  ball  of  fire  flashed  down  the  stream  and  dis- 
appeared around  the  bend.  For  a  long  time  I  tried  to 
puzzle  out  what  it  could  be.  There  was  no  form  of 
aquatic  phosphorescent  life  that  would  swim  through 
a  northern  stream  in  the  depths  of  winter.  It  was 
only  when  I  started  to  tell  the  time  by  the  sky  clock 
that  the  mystery  was  solved.  I  was  looking  at  the 
star  Caph  in  Cassiopeia,  which  is  the  hour-hand  of 
the  clock,  when  suddenly  a  meteor  flashed  down  the 
sky,  and  I  realized  that  my  submarine  of  a  few  mo- 
ments before  had  been  only  the  reflection  of  another 
shooting  star. 

As  I  stopped  on  the  porch  with  my  pitcher,  the 
open  door  made  a  long  lane  of  light.  Just  across  the 
creek,  not  fifty  feet  away,  sounded  a  crash  in  the 
brush,  and  there  in  the  spotlight,  held  by  the  glare, 
stood  a  big  buck.  For  a  moment  I  looked  right 
into  his  beautiful,  liquid,  gleaming  eyes.  Then,  with 
a  snort,  he  plunged  into  the  woods  and  was  gone. 
For  years  I  had  tramped  through  the  barrens  and 
had  found  the  tracks  of  the  deer  that  still  live  not 
thirty  miles  from  the  third  largest  city  in  America, 
but  until  that  night  I  had  never  seen  one. 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  67 

It  grew  colder  and  colder,  and  the  little  cabin 
snapped  and  cracked  with  the  frost.  Banking  up 
the  fireplace  with  logs,  I  pulled  my  bed  up  into  the 
circle  of  heat,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  flickering  of  the 
fire  and  the  croon  of  the  wind  among  the  pine  trees 
outside.  Through  the  window  I  could  see  the  winter 
sky  ablaze  with  stars,  while  the  late  moon  shone  like 
a  bowl  of  frozen  gold  through  the  black  tree-trunks. 

^The  next  morning  I  had  to  leave  on  the  nine- 
o'clock  train;  and  so  I  rose  early  and  after  breakfast 
took  a  last  walk  down  to  Lower  Mill  and  back,  to 
see  if  I  could  add  any  more  winter  birds  to  my  list. 
It  was  a  cold,  clear,  snapping  winter  morning,  and 
as  the  sun  came  up  through  the  pine  trees  I  met 
first  one  and  then  another  of  the  bird-folk  abroad 
after  their  breakfasts.    First  I  heard  the  "Pip,  pip!" 
of  the  downy  woodpecker,  all  black  and  white,  with 
a  bloodstain  at  the  back  of  his  head.    He  is  a  tree- 
climber  who  can  go  up  a  tree  head-foremost,  but 
must  always  back  down.   The  nuthatches,  with  their 
white  cheeks  and  grunting  notes,   can  go   up  and 
down  a  tree  either  head-first  or  tail-first  and  the  last 
of  the  tree-climbers,  the  brown  creeper,  climbs  up  in 
a  spiral,  but  has  to  fly  down. 

Farther  on,  I  heard  the  call  of  the  big  hairy  wood- 
pecker, which  looks  almost  like  the  downy  except 
that  he  is  nearly  twice  as  large.  He  was  drilling  a 
hole  in  the  under  side  of  a  branch  and  sucking  out 
hibernating  ants  with  his  long,  sticky  trident  tongue. 
Next  came  a  tree  sparrow,  with  his  white  wing-bar 
and   brown-red  patch   on   the   crown   of  his  head. 


68  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

He  was  busily  scratching  on  the  ground;  he  is  called 
a  tree  sparrow  because  never  by  any  chance  is  he 
found  in  a  tree.  On  the  side  of  a  white-oak  tree  a  bit 
of  bark  seemed  to  move  upward  in  a  spiral,  and  I 
recognized  the  brown  creeper,  the  last  of  the  climbers. 
He  went  up  the  tree  in  a  series  of  tiny  hops  and  then, 
true  to  his  training,  flew  down  and  started  up  again. 

As  I  turned  the  curve  by  Lower  Mill,  I  saw  in  a 
thicket  near  the  dam  a  number  of  white-throated 
sparrows,  with  their  striped  white  heads  and  white 
throat-patches.  Near  them  suddenly  hopped  a  bird 
that  ought  to  have  been  far  south.  It  was  reddish 
brown  with  a  long  tail,  and  I  recognized  the  female 
chewink.  She  hopped  around  and  scratched  among 
the  leaves  like  a  little  hen,  in  true  chewink  style, 
as  if  the  month  were  April  instead  of  January. 

I  hurried  around  a  bend  in  the  road  and  heard  over 
my  head  a  series  of  loud  pips,  much  like  the  note  of 
an  English  sparrow.  I  looked  up  —  and  there  was 
my  great  adventure.  A  little  locust  tree  was  filled 
with  a  flock  of  plump,  large  birds.  At  first  I  thought 
that  they  were  cedar  birds,  but  in  a  moment  I  caught 
sight  of  their  coloring.  Six  of  the  males  out  of  the 
flock  of  seventy -four  were  in  full  plumage.  Their 
forked  tails  were  velvet  black.  Their  wings  were  the 
golden  white  of  old  ivory,  with  a  broad  black  edge, 
their  heads  grayish  black,  and  their  breasts  and 
backs  a  deep,  rich  gold;  and,  strangest  of  all,  their 
thick  beaks  were  of  a  greenish-white  color. 

It  was  a  great  moment.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  had  met  the  evening  grosbeaks,  and  had 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  69 

found  what  afterwards  proved  to  be  the  largest  flock 
ever  reported  of  this  rare  bird  of  the  far  north  so 
far  south.  For  a  delightful  hour  I  followed  them. 
They  were  restless,  but  not  shy.  Sometimes  they 
alighted  on  the  ground  and  then  flew  up  all  together, 
like  a  flock  of  starlings.  They  looked  like  overgrown 
goldfinches,  just  as  the  pine  grosbeak  looks  like  an 
overgrown  purple  finch,  and  the  blue  grosbeak  of 
the  south  for  all  the  world  like  a  monstrous  indigo 
bunting.  As  I  followed  them,  suddenly  I  heard  a 
sharp  chip,  and  to  my  delight  there  flashed  into  sight 
the  crested  cardinal  grosbeak,  blood-red  against  the 
snow.  For  a  moment  the  lithe,  nervous,  flaming  bird 
of  the  south  met  its  squat,  strong,  stolid  cousin  of 
the  far  north. 

I  could  come  quite  near  without  alarming  them, 
and  then  suddenly  they  would  all  fly  away  together 
to  some  other  tree  without  any  apparent  reason. 
Besides  the  sparrow-like  note  that  I  first  heard,  they 
had  a  sort  of  trilling  chirp.  Once  they  all  started  like 
a  flock  of  goldfinches  or  grackles  in  a  chirping  chorus. 
When  they  flew,  they  sometimes  gave  a  single,  clear 
flight-note,  but  never  made  a  sound  when  feeding  on 
the  ground.  The  birds  had  short,  slightly  forked  tails, 
and  the  yellow  ring  around  the  eye  gave  them,  when 
seen  in  profile,  a  curious  spectacled  appearance; 
while  the  huge  beak  and  short  tail  made  them  seem 
clumsy  as  compared  with  the  other  grosbeaks.  The 
plumage  of  the  females  showed  mottled  black-and- 
white  wings  and  greenish-yellow  backs  and  breasts. 
The  iris  of  the  eye  in  both  sexes  was  red,  the  legs  of  a 


70  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

bluish-gray  pink,  and  the  feet  of  a  grayish-pink  color. 

Later  I  found  that  the  birds  fed  on  the  berries  of 
the  poison  ivy,  red  cedar,  climbing  bittersweet,  and 
the  buds  and  embryo  needles  of  the  pitch  pine, 
together  with  the  seeds  of  the  box  elder.  The  favorite 
food  of  the  flock  that  I  watched  seemed  always  to 
be  the  pits  of  the  wild  black  cherry  (Prunus  serotina) . 
They  would  take  the  pits  well  out  of  sight  back  into 
their  beaks,  keeping  their  bills  half  open  in  a  comical 
manner,  as  if  they  had  a  bone  in  the  throat.  A 
second  later  there  would  be  a  cracking  noise  and  out 
would  drop  two  nicely  split  segments  of  the  cherry 
pits,  the  meat  having  been  swallowed.  Sometimes 
in  the  trees  they  would  sidle  along  the  limbs  exactly 
as  a  parrot  does  along  its  perch. 

The  authorities  state  that  the  evening  grosbeak 
has  no  immature  plumage,  but  passes  after  its  first 
moulting  immediately  into  full  plumage.  I  saw  one, 
however,  that  I  am  sure  was  in  immature  plumage. 
The  back  was  yellowish  instead  of  being  gray,  like 
the  females',  and  the  wings  were  of  a  dirty  white 
color  instead  of  being  mottled  black  and  white,  like 
the  plumage  of  the  females,  or  half  black  and  half 
white,  like  the  plumage  of  the  males.  Both  sexes 
seemed  to  have  the  same  call  and  gave  it  equally 
often. 

The  history  of  the  evening  grosbeak  illustrates 
the  far-reaching  and  never-ending  consequences  of  a 
falsehood.  This  bit  of  moralizing  is  called  forth  be- 
cause of  the  name  of  this  sorely  misdescribed  bird. 
In  three  languages,  English,  Greek  and  Latin,  the 


A  RUNAWAY  DAY  71 

myth  is  perpetuated  that  the  evening  grosbeak,  or 
Hesperiphona  vespertina  vespertina,  sings  only  at  twi- 
light. It  all  began  in  1823,  when  one  Major  Dela- 
field,  a  boundary  agent  of  the  United  States  govern- 
ment, was  camping  northwest  of  Lake  Superior. 
There  he  met  a  flock  of  evening  grosbeaks  in  the  twi- 
light, and  instantly  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
birds  were  accustomed  to  spend  the  day  in  the  dark 
recesses  of  impassable  swamps  and  come  out  and 
sing  only  at  evening. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  evening  grosbeak  goes  to 
bed  at  dark,  like  all  other  respectable,  reputable 
birds.  Its  song  is  a  wandering,  jerky  warble  that  the 
singer  himself  recognizes  as  a  miserable  failure,  for 
he  often  stops  and  looks  discontented  and  then  re- 
mains silent  for  a  minute  before  trying  again.  It 
sounds  like  the  early  part  of  a  robin's  song,  but  is 
always  suddenly  checked  as  if  the  performer  were 
out  of  breath.  The  guess  of  the  imaginative  major 
was  later  elaborated  by  Prince  Lucien  Bonaparte, 
Nuttall,  and  even  by  later  ornithologists,  —  Coues 
among  them,  —  not  one  of  whom  had  ever  seen  or 
heard  the  bird.  Coues's  description  in  his  "Key  to 
North  American  Birds''  is  worth  quoting  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  rhetoric  in  which  a  past  generation  of 
ornithologists  dared  to  indulge. 

"A  bird  of  distinguished  appearance,  whose  very 
name  suggests  the  far-away  land  of  the  dipping  sun 
and  the  tuneful  romance  which  the  wild  bird  throws 
around  the  close  of  day.  Clothed  in  striking  color 
contrast  of  black,  white  and  gold,  he  seems  to  repre- 


72  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

sent  the  allegory  of  diurnal  transmutation,  for  his 
sable  pinions  close  around  the  brightness  of  his 
vesture,  as  night  encompasses  golden  hues  of  sunset, 
while  the  clear  white  space  enfolded  in  these  tints 
foretells  the  dawn  of  the  morrow." 

That  morning  I  knew  nothing  of  the  history  or 
the  habits  of  this  unknown  and  misrepresented  bird. 
All  I  knew  was  that  for  me  the  twenty-ninth  day  of 
January,  1917,  would  be  marked  in  my  calendar 
forever  by  a  bird  from  the  north,  all  dusky  gold  and 
velvet  black  and  ivory  white  —  the  Day  of  the  Even- 
ing Grosbeak. 

At  last  the  time  came  to  leave  them.  As  I  started 
back  for  home,  the  sun  showed  through  the  trees 
like  a  vast  red  coal,  with  a  smoke  of  clouds  drifting 
across  its  face,  and  I  traveled  back  to  town  in  the 
full  glory  of  a  clear  winter  morning,  filled  with  the 
measureless  content  of  a  great  discovery.  It  was 
good  to  be  alive  and  to  look  forward  to  more  work 
and  to  more  glorious,  adventure-filled  runaway  days. 


V 
THE  RAVEN'S  NEST 

After  all,  the  Rosicrucians  were  an  ignorant  lot. 
They  spent  their  days  over  alembics,  cucurbits,  and 
crucibles — yet  they  grew  old.  In  our  days  many 
men— and  a  few  women — have  discovered  the 
Elixir  of  Youth  —  but  never  indoors.  The  prescrip- 
tion is  a  simple  one.  Mix  a  hobby  with  plenty  of 
sky-air,  shake  well,  and  take  twice  a  week.  I  know  a 
railroad  official  who  retired  when  he  was  seventy. 
"He'll  die  soon,"  observed  his  friends  kindly. 
Instead,  he  began  to  collect  native  orchids  from  all 
points  of  the  compass.  Now  he  is  too  busy  tramping 
over  mountains  and  through  woods  and  marshes 
even  to  think  of  dying.  Anyway,  he  would  not  have 
time  until  he  has  found  the  ram's-head  and  the 
crane's-bill  orchids  and  finished  his  monograph  on 
the  Habenaria.    He  will  never  grow  old. 

Neither  will  that  other  friend  of  mine  who  collects 
fresh-water  pearls,  nor  the  one  who  makes  me  visit 
black-snake  and  rattlesnake  dens  with  him  every 
spring,  nor  those  others  who  spend  their  time  in 
collecting  butterflies,  beetles,  wasps,  and  similar 
bric-a-brac.  As  for  those  four  abandoned  oologists 
who  have  hunted  with  me  for  years,  they  will  be 
young  at  a  hundred.  They  rank  high  in  their  respec- 
tive callings.    Yet  from  February,  when  the  great 


74  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

horned  owl  begins  its  nest,  until  the  goldfinch  lays 
her  white  eggs  in  July,  the  four  spend  every  holiday 
and  vacation  hunting  birds'  nests. 

Personally  I  collect  only  notes,  out-of-door  secrets, 
and  little  everyday  adventures.  Bird-songs,  flower- 
fields,  and  friendships  with  the  wild-folk  mean  far 
more  to  me  than  cabinets  of  pierced  eggs,  dried 
flowers,  stuffed  birds,  and  tanned  skins.  Nor  am  I 
much  of  a  hunter.  When  it  comes  to  slaughtering 
defenseless  animals  with  high-powered  guns,  I  prefer 
a  position  in  an  abattoir.  One  can  kill  more  animals 
in  a  day,  and  with  less  exertion.  Yet  my  collecting 
and  sporting  friends  make  allowances  for  my  vagaries 
and  take  me  with  them  on  their  journeyings.  Where- 
fore it  happened  that  in  early  March  I  received  a 
telegram.  "Raven's  nest  located.  Come  if  you  are 
man  enough." 

Now  a  middle-aged  lawyer  and  the  father  of  a 
family  has  no  business  ravening  along  the  icy  and 
inaccessible  cliffs  which  that  gifted  fowl  prefers  for 
nursery  purposes.  I  have,  however,  a  maxim  of 
Thoreau  which  I  furbish  up  for  just  such  occasions. 
"A  man  sits  as  many  risks  as  he  runs,"  wrote  that 
wanderer  in  the  woods.  Accordingly  the  next  morn- 
ing found  me  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  plod- 
ding through  a  driving  snow-storm  toward  Seven 
Mountains,  with  the  first  man  in  recent  years  to  find 
the  nest  of  a  northern  raven  in  Pennsylvania. 

For  fifteen  freezing  miles  we  clambered  over  and 
around  three  of  the  seven.  By  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  we  reached  a  cliff  hidden  behind  thickets 


THE   RAVEN'S  NEST  75 

of  rhododendron.  In  the  meantime  the  snow  had 
changed  to  a  lashing  rain,  probably  the  coldest  that 
has  ever  fallen  on  the  North  American  continent. 
Ploughing  through  slush,  the  black  rhododendron 
stems  twisted  around  us  like  wet  rubber,  and  the 
hollow  green  leaves  funneled  ice-water  down  our 
backs  and  into  our  ears.  Breaking  through  the  last 
of  the  thickets,  we  at  length  reached  a  little  brook 
which  ran  along  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  A  hundred  feet 
above,  out  from  the  middle  of  the  cliff  stretched  a 
long  tongue  of  rock.  Over  this  the  cliff  arched  like 
a  roof,  with  a  space  between  which  widened  toward 
the  tip  of  the  tongue.  In  a  niche  above  this  cleft  a 
dark  mass  showed  dimly  through  the  rain. 

"The  nest!"  muttered  the  Collector  hoarsely, 
pouring  a  pint  or  so  of  rain-water  down  my  neck 
from  his  hat-brim  as  he  bent  toward  me.  I  stared 
with  all  my  eyes,  at  last  one  of  the  chosen  f ewT  to  see 
the  nest  of  a  Pennsylvania  raven.  It  was  made  of 
large  sticks.  The  fresh  broken  ends  and  the  droppings 
on  the  cliff-side  showed  that  it  was  a  recent  one. 
There  were  no  signs  of  either  of  the  birds.  We 
solemnly  removed  our  coats  and  sweaters  and  pre- 
pared for  the  worst.  To  me  the  cliff  looked  much 
like  the  Matterhorn,  only  slipperier.  The  Collector, 
however,  was  most  reassuring.  He  told  me  that  the 
going  looked  worse  than  it  really  was,  and  that, 
anyway,  if  I  did  fall,  death  would  be  so  nearly  in- 
stantaneous as  to  involve  little  if  any  suffering. 

Thus  encouraged,  I  followed  him  gruntingly  up  a 
path  which  had  evidently  been  made  by  a  chamois 


76  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

or  an  ibex.  At  last  I  found  myself  perched  on  a  shelf 
of  stone  about  the  width  of  my  hand.  The  Collec- 
tor, who  was  above  me  on  an  even  smaller  foothold, 
took  this  opportunity  to  tell  me  that  the  rare  Alle- 
gheny cave-rat  was  found  on  this  cliff,  and  nearly 
fell  off  his  perch  trying  to  point  out  to  me  a  crevice 
where  he  had  once  seen  the  mass  of  sticks,  stones, 
leaves,  feathers,  and  bones  with  which  these  versa- 
tile animals  barricade  their  passage-ways.  I  refused 
to  turn  my  head.  That  day  I  was  risking  my  life  for 
ravens,  not  rats.  Above  us  was  the  long,  rough 
tongue  of  rock.  Below  us,  a  far  hundred  feet,  the 
brook  wound  its  way  through  snow-covered  boulders. 

Again  the  Collector  led  the  way.  Hooking  both 
arms  over  the  tongue  of  rock  above  him,  he  drew 
himself  up  until  his  chest  rested  on  the  edge,  and  then, 
sliding  toward  the  precipice,  managed  to  wriggle  up 
in  some  miraculous  way  without  slipping  off.  From 
the  top  of  the  tongue  he  clambered  up  to  the  niche 
where  the  nest  was,  calling  down  to  me  to  follow. 
Accordingly  I  left  my  shelf  and  hung  sprawlingly  on 
the  tongue;  but  there  was  no  room  to  push  my  way 
up  between  it  and  the  rock-roof  above. 

"Throw  your  legs  straight  out,"  counseled  the 
Collector  from  above,  "and  let  yourself  slide." 

I  tried  conscientiously,  but  it  was  impossible. 
My  sedentary,  unadventurous  legs  simply  would  not 
whirl  out  into  space.  At  last,  under  the  jeers  of  my 
friend,  I  shut  my  eyes  and,  kicking  out  mightily, 
found  myself  sliding  toward  eternity.  Just  before 
I  reached  it,  under  the  Collector's  bellowed  instruc- 


THE   RAVEN'S   NEST  77 

tions,  I  thrust  my  left  arm  up  as  far  as  I  could,  and 
found  a  hand-hold  on  the  slippery  rock.  After  getting 
my  breath,  I  managed  to  wriggle  up  through  the 
crevice  and  lay  safe  on  the  top  of  the  tongue.  The 
niche  above  was  not  large  enough  for  us  both,  so 
the  Collector  came  down  while  I  took  his  place. 
I  was  lashed  by  a  freezing  rain,  my  numb  hands  were 
cut  and  bleeding,  and  there  were  ten  weary  miles 
still  ahead.  Yet  that  moment  was  worth  all  that  it 
cost.  There  is  an  indescribable  fascination  and 
triumph  in  sharing  a  secret  with  the  wild-folk,  which 
can  be  understood  only  by  the  initiate.  The  living 
naturalists  who  had  looked  into  the  home  of  the 
Northern  raven  in  Pennsylvania  could  be  counted  on 
the  thumb  and  first  three  fingers  of  one  hand.  At 
last  the  little  finger  belonged  to  me. 

The  deep  cup  of  the  nest  was  about  one  foot  in 
diameter  and  over  a  yard  across  on  the  outside. 
It  was  firmly  anchored  on  the  shelf  of  rock,  the 
structure  being  built  into  the  crevices  and  made 
entirely  of  dead  oak  branches,  some  of  them  fully 
three  quarters  of  an  inch  in  diameter.  It  looked  from 
a  distance  like  an  enormous  crow's  nest.  The  cup 
itself  was  some  six  inches  deep,  and  lined  with  red 
and  white  deer-hair  and  some  long  black  hairs  which 
were  probably  those  of  a  skunk.  Inside,  it  had  a 
little  damp  green  moss;  while  the  rim  was  made  of 
green  birch  twigs  bruised  and  hackled  by  the  beaks 
of  the  builders.  On  this  day,  March  9,  1918,  there 
were  no  eggs,  although  in  a  previous  year  the  Collec- 
tor had  found  two  as  early  as  February  25,  when 


78  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  cliffs  were  covered  with  snow;  and  on  March  5, 
of  another  year  he  collected  a  full  set  of  five  fresh 
eggs,  which  I  afterwards  examined  in  his  collection. 
The  birds  had  built  a  nest  the  year  before,  without 
laying.  This  fact,  with  the  absence  of  eggs  this  year, 
convinced  the  Collector  that  the  birds  were  sterile 
from  age.  During  the  last  years  of  their  long  life, 
which  is  supposed  to  approach  a  century,  a  pair  of 
ravens  will  sometimes  build,  with  pathetic  pains, 
nest  after  nest  which  are  never  occupied  by  eggs. 
The  Collector  promised  to  show  me  a  set,  however, 
the  next  day  in  another  nest. 

At  last  it  was  time  to  start  down.  The  Collector, 
who  was  waiting  on  his  shelf,  warned  me  that  the 
descent  was  more  difficult  than  the  climb  which  I 
had  just  lived  through,  as  it  was  necessary  to  slide 
some  six  feet  backwards  to  the  shelf  from  which  we 
started.  As  I  looked  down  the  cliff-side  I  decided 
to  remain  with  the  ravens.  It  was  not  until  the  Col- 
lector promised  most  solemnly  to  catch  me,  that  I 
at  last  let  go  and  found  myself  back  on  the  shelf 
with  him.  Then  came  another  wonderful  moment. 
"Crrruck,  crrruck,  crrruck,"  sounded  hoarsely  from 
the  valley  below  —  a  note  like  that  of  a  deep-voiced 
crow  with  a  bad  cold. 

"Hurry !"  urged  the  Collector;  "it'soneof  the  old 
birds  coming  back. " 

I  claim  to  have  hurried  as  much  as  any  man  of  my 
age  could  be  expected  to  do,  but  by  the  time  I  had 
reached  the  path  the  wary  raven  had  disappeared. 
I  clambered  down  the  cliff  while  the  Collector  re- 


THE  RAVEN'S  NEST  79 

proached  me  for  my  senile  slowness.  We  stopped  to 
rest  at  the  foot,  and  I  was  just  telling  him  that  the 
Cornishmen  hate  the  raven  because  to  their  ears  he 
always  cries  "Corpse,  corpse!"  when  suddenly  the 
bird  itself  came  back  again.  It  flew  across  the  valley 
and  alighted  on  a  tree-top  by  the  opposite  cliff, 
looking  like  a  monster  crow,  being  about  one-third 
longer.  One  might  mistake  a  crow  for  a  raven, 
but  never  a  raven  for  a  crow.  If  there  be  any  doubt 
about  the  bird,  it  is  always  safe  to  set  it  down  as  a 
crow. 

The  flight  of  the  raven,  which  consisted  of  two 
flaps  and  a  soar,  and  its  long  tail  resembling  that  of 
an  enormous  grackle,  were  its  most  evident  field- 
marks. 

For  long  we  sat  and  watched  the  wary  birds,  until, 
chilled  through  by  the  driving  rain,  we  started  to 
cover  the  ten  miles  that  lay  between  us  and  the 
house  of  Squire  McMahon,  a  mountain  friend  of 
the  Collector,  where  we  planned  to  pass  the  night. 
On  the  way  the  Collector  told  me  that  he  saw  his 
first  raven  while  wandering  through  the  mountains 
in  the  spring  of  1909,  and  how  he  trailed  and  hunted 
and  watched  until,  in  1910,  he  found  the  first  nest. 
Since  then  he  had  found  twelve.  His  system  was  a 
simple  one.  Selecting  from  a  gazetteer  a  list  of  moun- 
tain villages  with  wild  names,  such  as  Bear  Creek, 
Paddy's  Mountain,  and  Panther  Run,  he  would 
write  to  the  postmasters  for  the  names  of  noted  hunt- 
ers and  woodsmen.  From  them  he  would  secure 
more  or  less  accurate  information  about  the  haunts 


80  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

of  ravens,  which  usually  frequent  only  the  loneliest 
and  most  inaccessible  parts  of  the  mountains. 

The  trail  led  through  deep  forests  and  up  and  across 
mountains,  and  was  so  covered  with  ice  and  snow  as 
to  be  difficult  going.  At  one  point  the  Collector 
showed  me  a  place  where  he  had  been  walking 
years  ago,  when  he  suddenly  became  conscious  that 
he  was  being  followed  by  something  or  somebody. 
At  a  point  where  the  trail  doubled  on  itself,  he  ran 
back  swiftly  and  silently,  just  in  time  to  see  a  bay- 
lynx  —  which  had  been  trailing  him,  as  those  big 
cats  sometimes  will  —  dive  into  a  nearby  thicket. 
Anon  he  cheered  the  way  with  snake  stories,  for  Seven 
Mountains  in  summer  swarm  with  rattlesnakes  and 
copperheads. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  it  was  dark,  and  I 
thought  with  a  great  longing  of  food  and  fire  — 
especially  fire.  It  did  not  seem  possible  to  be  so  cold 
and  still  live.  In  the  very  nick  of  time,  for  me  at 
least,  we  caught  sight  of  the  lamplight  streaming 
from  the  windows  of  the  Squire's  house.  Dripping, 
chilled,  tired,  and  starving,  we  burst  into  Mrs. 
McMahon's  immaculate  kitchen  and  were  treated 
by  the  old  couple  like  a  pair  of  long-lost  sons.  In 
less  than  two  minutes  our  waterlogged  shoes  were  off, 
our  wet  coats  and  sogged  sweaters  spread  out  to 
dry,  and  we  sat  huddled  over  a  glowing  stove  while 
Mrs.  McMahon  fried  fish,  made  griddle-cakes,  and 
brewed  hot  tea  simultaneously  and  with  a  swiftness 
that  just  saved  two  lives.  We  ate  and  ate  and  ate 
and  ate,  and  then,  in  a  huge  feather-bed,  we  slept 


THE   RAVEN'S  NEST  81 

and  slept  and  slept  and  slept.    Long  after  I  have  for- 
gotten the  difference  between  a  tort  and  a  contract 
and  whether  A.  Edward  Newton  or  Marie  Corelli 
wrote  the  "Amenities,"  that  dinner  and  that  sleep 
will  stand  out  in  my  memory. 

The  next  morning  we  started  off  again  in  a  driving 
snowstorm,  to  look  at  another  nest  some  ten  miles 
farther  on.  The  first  bird  we  met  was  a  prairie 
horned  lark  flying  over  the  valley,  with  its  curious 
tossing,  mounting  flight,  like  a  bunch  of  thistle-down. 
It  differs  from  the  more  common  horned,  or  shore, 
lark  by  having  a  white  instead  of  a  yellow  throat  and 
eye-line;  and  it  nests  in  the  mountain  meadows  in 
upper  Pennsylvania,  while  its  larger  brother  breeds  in 
the  far  north. 

Noon  found  us  at  a  deer  camp.    Through  the  un- 
curtained windows  we  could  see  the  mounted  body  of 
a  golden  eagle,  which,  after  stalking  and  destroying 
one  by  one  a  whole  flock  of  wild  turkeys,  had  come 
to  an  ignoble  end  while  gorged  on  the  carcass  of  a 
dead  deer.   The  man  who  captured  it  by  throwing  his 
coat  over  its  head  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  turkey 
buzzard,    which    southern    bird,    curiously    enough, 
finds  its  way  through  the  valleys  up  into  these  north- 
ern mountains.   In  fact,  the  Collector  once  found  a 
buzzard's  nest  just  across  a  ravine  from  the  nest  of 
a  raven.    Beyond  the  camp,  on  the  other  side  of  a 
rushing  torrent,  we  found  another  raven's  nest  sway- 
ing in  the  gale,  in  the  very  top  of  a  slender  forty-foot 
white  pine,  the  only  raven's  nest  the  Collector  had 
ever  found  in  a  tree.   It  was  deserted,  and  we  reached 


82  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

home  late  that  night  with  frost-bitten  faces  and  ears, 
and  without  a  sight  of  the  eggs  of  the  northern  raven. 
The  next  day  we  took  a  train,  and  traveled  forty 
miles  down  the  river  to  where,  on  a  cliff  overhanging 
the  water,  a  pair  of  ravens  had  nested  for  the  last 
fifty  years.  There  we  found  numerous  old  nests, 
but  never  a  trace  of  any  that  were  fresh.  There  too 
we  found  a  magnificent  wild  turkey  hanging  dead  in 
a  little  apple  tree;  it  had  come  to  a  miserable  end  by 
catching  the  toes  of  one  foot  in  between  two  twigs 
in  such  a  way  that  it  could  not  release  itself.  The 
bright  red  color  of  its  legs  distinguished  it  from  a 
tame  turkey.  The  Collector  confided  to  me  that  the 
ambition  of  his  life  was  to  find  the  nest  of  a  wild 
turkey,  which  is  the  rarest  of  all  Pennsylvania 
nests.  Next  to  it  from  a  collecting  standpoint  come 
the  nests  of  the  Northern  raven,  pileated  woodpecker, 
and  Blackburnian  warbler,  in  the  order  named. 

March  12,  1919,  found  me  again  on  a  raven  hunt 
with  the  Collector.  Before  sunrise  I  was  dropped 
from  a  sleeper  at  a  little  mountain  station  set  in  a 
hill  country  full  of  broad  fields,  swift  streams,  and 
leafless  trees,  flanked  by  dark  belts  of  pines  and 
hemlocks.  Beyond  the  hills  was  raven-land,  lonely, 
wind-swept,  full  of  lavender  and  misty-purple  moun- 
tains, with  now  and  then  a  gap  showing  in  their  ram- 
parts. It  was  in  these  gaps  that  the  ravens  nested, 
always  on  the  north  side,  farthest  from  the  sun. 

Nearby  was  Treaster's  Valley,  which  old  Dan 
Treaster  won  from  a  pack  of  black  wolves  before  the 


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THE  RAVEN'S  NEST  83 

Revolution.  When  he  lay  a-dying,  three  quarters 
of  a  century  later,  the  wailing  howl  of  a  wolf-pack 
sounded  outside  his  cabin,  although  wolves  had  been 
gone  from  the  Valley  for  fifty  years.  Old  Dan  sat 
up  with  the  death-sweat  on  his  forehead  and 
grinned.  "They've  come  to  see  me  off,"  he  whis- 
pered and  fell  back  dead. 

They  bred  hunters  in  that  Valley.  Peter  Penz,  the 
Indian  fighter,  who  celebrated  his  ninetieth  birthday 
by  killing  a  red  bear,  came  from  there.  So  did  Jacob 
Quiggle,  who  killed  a  maned  panther  one  winter 
night,  under  the  light  of  a  wind-swept  moon,  with  his 
famous  gun,  Black  Sam.  Over  on  Panther's  Run  not 
ten  miles  away,  lived  Solomon  Miller,  who  shot  the 
last  wood-bison,  and  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight, 
clapping  his  hands  and  shouting  the  chorus  of  a 
hunting-song. 

As  the  light  began  to  show  in  the  eastern  sky, 
came  the  first  bird-notes  of  the  day.  The  caw  of  a 
crow,  a  snatch  of  song-sparrow  melody,  the  chirp  of 
a  robin,  the  fluted  alto  note  of  a  blue-bird,  and  the 
squeal  of  a  red-tailed  hawk  sounded  before  the  sun 
came  up. 

A  change  of  trains,  and  I  met  the  Collector,  as 
enthusiastic  as  ever.  Already  that  year  he  had  found 
six  ravens'  nests  with  eggs  in  them,  but  the  one  he 
had  promised  to  show  me  was  the  best  of  the  lot. 
It  was  located  in  Poe's  Gap,  where  local  tradition 
hath  it  that  the  poet  wooed,  not  unsuccessfully,  a 
mountain  girl,  and  wrote  "The  Raven"  in  her  cabin. 
On  the  way  to  the  Gap  we  heard  and  saw  nineteen 


84  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

different  kinds  of  birds,  including  siskin,  fox  sparrows, 
and  killdeer,  and  saw  a  buzzard  sail  on  black-fringed 
wings  over  the  peaks.  On  a  farmer's  barn  we  saw  a 
goshawk  nailed,  its  blue-gray  back  and  finely  penciled 
breast  unmistakable,  even  after  the  winter  storms. 

As  we  entered  the  Gap,  patches  of  snow  showed 
here  and  there,  and  a  mad  mountain  brook  of  foam- 
ing gray  water  came  frothing  and  raging  to  meet  us. 
When  we  were  full  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
away  from  the  nest,  the  female  raven  flapped  and 
soared  away.  The  nest  itself  was  only  thirty  feet 
from  the  ground,  on  a  shelf  protected  by  a  protruding 
ledge,  some  ten  feet  down  from  the  top  of  the  cliffs. 
Rigging  a  rope  to  a  tree,  I  managed  to  swarm  up  and 
look  at  last  on  the  eggs  of  a  Northern  raven.  They 
were  three  in  number,  a  full  clutch.  The  number 
ranges  from  three  to  five,  very  rarely  six,  with  one 
instance  of  seven.  The  eggs  themselves  were  half  as 
large  again  as  those  of  a  crow,  and  all  different  in 
coloration.  One  was  light-blue-flecked  and  speckled 
with  brown  and  lavender;  another  heavily  marked 
with  lavender  and  greenish-brown ;  while  the  last  was 
of  a  solid  greenish-brown  color. 

The  nest  itself  faced  the  Gap,  and  from  it  one  could 
look  clear  across  the  forest  to  the  settled  country 
beyond,  while  behind  the  cliff  stretched  a  range  of 
low,  unexplored  mountains.  The  nest  itself  was  made 
of  smaller  sticks  than  the  one  I  had  seen  over  at 
Seven  Mountains,  and  had  a  double  lining  of  brown 
and  white  deer-hair,  a  fresh  lining  having  been  laid 
over  that  of  the  year  before.    As  we  climbed  to  the 


THE  RAVEN'S  NEST  85 

nest,  the  ravens  soared  near,  giving  only  the  hoarse 
"Crrruck. "  They  have  also  a  soft  love-note,  which 
cannot  be  heard  fifty  yards  away  and  sounds  some- 
thing like  the  syllables  "  Ga-gl-gl-gli. "  As  they 
soared  near  us,  their  plumage  shone  like  black  glass, 
and  we  could  see  the  long  tapered  feathers  of  the  neck 
swell  whenever  either  of  them  croaked.  They  had  a 
peculiar  trick  of  gliding  side  by  side  and  suddenly 
touching  wings,  overlapping  each  other  for  an  in- 
stant. While  we  watched  them,  a  red-shouldered 
hawk  unwarily  approached  the  Gap.  In  an  instant, 
the  male  raven  was  upon  him,  and  there  was  a  sharp 
fight.  The  Buteo  was  not  to  be  driven  away  easily, 
and  made  brave  play  with  beak  and  talons;  but  he 
never  had  a  chance.  The  raven  glided  round  and 
round  him  with  wonderful  speed  and  smoothness, 
driving  in  blow  after  blow  with  his  heavy,  punishing 
beak,  until  the  hawk  was  glad  to  escape. 

For  long  and  long  I  watched  the  dark,  wise  mys- 
terious birds  circle  through  the  blue  sky.  As  I  sat 
in  their  eyrie,  I  could  look  far,  far  across  the  forests 
and  the  ranges  of  hills,  to  where  the  ploughed  fields 
began.  Perhaps  that  poet  whose  heart-strings  were  a 
lute  had  looked  from  that  same  raven-cliff  before  he 
went  back  to  die  among  the  tame  folk,  and  wished 
that  he  could  stay  in  wild-folk  land  where  he 
belonged. 


VI 
HIDDEN  TREASURE 

It  cost  me  an  appendix  to  become  a  treasure- 
hunter,  but  it  was  worth  the  price.  I  really  had  very 
little  use  for  that  appendix  anyway,  while  my  mem- 
bership in  the  Order  of  Treasure-Hunters  has  brought 
me  in  several  million  dollars'  worth  of  health  and 
happiness. 

It  all  began  when  I  was  sent  from  a  city  hospital 
to  an  old  farmhouse  in  the  northwestern  corner  of 
Connecticut,  with  instructions  to  avoid  all  but  the 
most  ladylike  kind  of  exercise.  Accordingly  one 
morning  I  found  myself  tottering  feebly  along  a 
wood-road  that  led  over  Pond  Hill,  highly  resolved 
to  walk  to  Hen's  Pine  and  back.  This  was  the  lone 
tree  which  stood  on  the  crest  of  the  wooded  hill 
which,  half  a  century  ago,  old  Hen,  a  freed  slave, 
had  begged  from  the  charcoal-burners  when  they 
coaled  that  region.  Hen's  old  horse,  Bill,  is  buried 
at  its  foot,  and  Hen  had  hoped  to  lie  there  himself 
with  his  axe,  his  fiddle,  and  his  whip.  Instead,  he 
sleeps  in  a  little  graveyard  on  a  bare  hill  beside  his 
old  master. 

My  path  had  just  crossed  a  round  green  circle  in 
the  woods  where  an  old  charcoal-pit  had  set  its  seal 
forever.  Suddenly  a  brown  bird  flew  up  from  beside 
the  road  a  few  yards  ahead  of  me.   If  she  had  kept 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  87 

quiet,  I  never  would  have  learned  her  secret.  When, 
however,  she  came  back,  flying  from  branch  to  branch 
with  fluttering  wings  and  jerking  tail,  keeping  up  at 
the  same  time  a  rattle  of  alarm-notes  like  a  tiny 
machine-gun,  even  a  novice  like  myself  would  sus- 
pect a  nest. 

Fortunately  a  broken  hazel  bush  marked  the  exact 
spot  from  which  she  had  flown.  On  going  there, 
and  looking  carefully  near  its  base,  I  found  what  has 
always  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  most  beautifully 
hidden  nests  of  all  the  hundreds  which  I  have  seen 
since  —  perhaps  because  it  was  my  first  rare  nest.  It 
was  roofed  in  by  the  split  hazel-branch,  and  made  of 
woven  dry  grass  and  leaves,  with  a  scanty  lining  of 
horse-hair  and  a  flooring  of  leaf -fragments.  Inside 
were  five  eggs.  Four  of  them  were  bluish- white, 
with  aureoles  of  reddish-brown  blotches  around  the 
blunt  ends;  but  the  fifth  was  larger,  and  was  specked 
and  splashed  with  blotches  of  rufous  and  brown- 
purple.  Long  afterwards  I  learned  that  this  last 
egg  was  the  fatal  gift  of  that  vampire  the  cow-bird, 
and  that  by  leaving  it  there  I  had  doomed  the  four 
legitimate  future  birds  of  that  nest  to  certain  death. 
Sooner  or  later  the  deadly  changeling  would  hatch 
from  that  egg  and  roll  its  foster-brothers  out  of  the 
nest  to  starve. 

That  day,  however,  I  was  ignorant  even  of  the 
name  of  the  bird  whose  nest  I  had  found.  For  long 
I  stood  and  gloated  like  a  miser  over  the  little 
jewel-casket  which  the  mother-bird  had  shown  me, 
and  for  the  first  time  realized  that  anywhere  in  the 


88  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

woods  and  fields  I  might  come  upon  other  treasure- 
hordes  of  the  same  kind.  Then  and  there  I  became 
a  treasure-hunter.  Ever  since  then  I  leave  my  treas- 
ures where  I  find  them,  so  that  my  recollections  of 
them  may  not  be  marred  by  any  memories  of 
fluttering,  mourning  mother  birds.  Aside  from  any 
sentimental  reasons,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
he  who  takes  the  eggs  which  he  has  discovered  is 
guilty  of  the  economic  error  of  spending  his  princi- 
pal. If  left  undisturbed,  the  nest  will  pay  dividends 
in  the  way  of  information  and  observations  which 
are  worth  more  than  the  mere  possession  of  the 
pierced  and  empty  eggs. 

All  the  time  that  I  was  studying  this  nest  both  the 
parent  birds  were  moving  around  me  in  anxious 
circles.  At  times  the  mother  bird  would  drop  her 
wings  and  scurry  along  just  in  front  of  me,  pretending 
that  she  was  wounded  nigh  unto  death  and  that,  if 
I  would  but  follow  her  away  from  the  nest,  she 
could  easily  be  caught.  Both  the  birds  had  brown 
backs  and  buff  breasts  and  sides  spotted  with  black, 
and  constantly  tilted  their  tails  and  walked  instead 
of  hopping.  As  soon  as  I  came  back  to  the  farmhouse, 
I  rummaged  through  colored  charts  and  bird-books 
until  I  had  decided  that  the  nest  was  that  of  a  fox 
sparrow,  which  also  has  a  brown  back  and  a  spotted 
breast.  It  was  not  until  another  year  that  I  learned 
that  the  fox  sparrow  nests  in  the  far  North  and  that 
the  bird  whose  home  I  had  discovered  was  none  other 
than  the  oven-bird  —  or  golden-crowned  accentor, 
to  give  him  his  more  sonorous  title.    This  is  the  bird 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  89 

which  comes  in  late  April  or  early  May  and  sings 
all  through  the  woods  the  best  example  of  a  cre- 
scendo song  in  all  bird-music.  His  nest  on  the  ground 
usually  has  a  domed  overhanging  roof  which  makes 
it  resemble  an  old-fashioned  Dutch  oven. 

^  In  spite  of  my  ignorance  there  followed  the  hap- 
piest week  of  my  life.   I  forgot  that  I  was  an  invalid, 
as  well  as  all    the   injunctions  of  my  doctor.    From 
morning  until  night  I  hunted  birds'  nests.    As  usual 
fortune  favored  the  novice,  and  I  found  nests  that 
first  week  which  I  have  found  but  few  times  since. 
The  very  next  morning,  on  the  other  side  of  Pond 
Hill  I  turned  a  sudden  corner  of  the  path  through 
the   dim   green   silence,   and   stepped   right  into^a 
breakfast-party.     Mrs.    Ruffed    Grouse,    known    in 
that  part  of  the  country  as  partridge,  was  breakfast- 
ing in  the  open  path  with  at  least  a  dozen  little 
grouse  —  or  is  it  greese.   Although  taken  by  surprise, 
neither  she  nor  her  children  hesitated  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second.   Falling  upon  the  ground,  she  rolled  and 
flapped  as  if  in  the  last  agonies  of  death,  whining 
like  a  puppy  and  dragging  herself  almost  to  my  feet. 
I  looked  away  from  the  covey  for  a  minute,  to  watch 
the  bird  struggling  and  whining  at  my  very   feet. 
As  I  stretched  my  hand  out  toward  her,  she  feebly 
flopped   away,    still   apparently   well   within   reach. 
I  took  a  step  or  so  after  her,  to  see  if  she  would  really 
permit   herself    to    be   caught.     Suddenly   realizing 
that  she  was  only  decoying  me  away  from  her  brood, 
I  turned  back.    Although  I  had  gone  less  than  six 
feet,  and  the  little  birds  had  been  huddled  together 


90  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

close  to  me  on  the  bare  path,  they  had  absolutely 
disappeared.  It  seemed  impossible  that  in  a  few  sec- 
onds they  could  have  gained  the  shelter  of  the  woods 
or  could  have  found  cover  in  the  scanty  grass  and 
scattered  leaves  close  at  hand.  Not  one  could  I  find 
although  I  searched  and  searched.  When  I  turned 
back  the  mother  grouse  was  gone  also,  although  I 
could  hear  her  whining  through  the  bushes. 

Years  later,  again  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  one 
day  early  in  June,  I  came  upon  another  mother 
grouse  leading  a  covey  of  little  chicks,  evidently 
just  hatched,  in  single  file  out  from  the  woods  into 
the  open,  probably  to  catch  grasshoppers.  She  went 
through  the  same  performance  as  the  first  one,  but 
this  time  I  selected  the  two  nearest  chicks,  which 
stood  directly  in  front  of  me,  and  resolved  that  noth- 
ing would  make  me  take  my  eyes  away  from  them. 
Even  as  I  watched,  they  melted  away  into  the  grass. 
One  I  found  lying  motionless  on  its  side  under  a  big 
brown  leaf,  looking  exactly  like  its  covering.  The 
other  I  never  did  find.  At  first  the  leaf-hidden 
partridge  refused  to  move  even  when  I  touched  it, 
until  I  picked  it  up.  Then  it  gave  a  shrill  peep 
almost  like  a  little  chicken.  Instantly  the  poor 
mother  bird  rushed  up  to  my  very  feet  and  dashed 
her  wings  frantically  against  my  legs,  jumping  up 
from  the  ground  and  whining  so  piteously  that, 
after  I  had  stroked  her  fuzzy,  soft  little  chick,  I  put 
it  back  on  the  ground  without  any  further  examina- 
tion. At  once  it  disappeared,  and  the  mother  bird, 
still  whining,  also  sidled  away  into  the  woods. 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  91 

I  hid  behind  an  apple  tree  and  waited  nearly  half 
an  hour.  At  last  from  the  woods  sounded  a  low 
"Cluck,  cluck,  cluck,"  and  instantly  nine  little  par- 
tridge chicks,  one  by  one,  started  up  from  the  most 
impossible  hiding-places.  It  was  like  watching  a 
resurrection.  Some  came  from  under  leaves,  others 
out  of  clumps  of  grass,  and  two  or  three  rose  from 
the  almost  bare  ground,  where  they  had  lain  in  per- 
fect concealment.  Falling  into  single  file,  they  hur- 
ried like  little  ghosts  into  the  thicket,  and  the  last  I 
heard  of  that  little  family  was  a  few  soft  and  very 
satisfied  clucks  from  the  hidden  mother  bird. 

During  that  golden  week  of  treasure-hunting  I 
found  a  number  of  common  nests  which,  although 
everyday  affairs  to  an  experienced  ornithologist, 
were  then,  as  they  are  now,  a  source  of  never-ending 
interest.  There  was  the  robin's  nest  partly  made  of 
wool,  which  I  found  in  a  thorn-bush  in  the  sheep- 
pasture,  with  its  four  long,  sky-blue  eggs.  Over  in 
the  woods,  just  back  of  the  deserted  house  where 
Nat  Bunker,  the  Indian,  used  to  weave  wonderful 
baskets  out  of  maiden-hair  stems,  I  found  the  nest 
of  a  wood  thrush  in  a  witch-hazel  about  seven  feet 
from  the  ground,  by  the  simple  process  of  running 
my  head  against  the  bush  while  going  through  the 
thick  undergrowth.  This  accident  bunted  the  mo- 
ther thrush  off  the  nest;  and  pulling  the  bush  down, 
I  peered  in  and  saw  three  light-blue  eggs. 

If  I  had  taken  these  eggs,  as  some  bird 's-nesters 
do,  I  never  should  have  had  the  experience  of  actually 
seeing  a  little  wood  thrush  come  into  the  world.    It 


92  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

was  the  last  morning  of  my  stay,  and  I  had  been 
making  my  round  of  nests,  examining  each  one  and 
beginning  the  bird-notes  which  I  have  kept  up  ever 
since.  As  I  pulled  the  nest  down  and  looked  at  the 
three  eggs,  I  suddenly  saw  a  tiny  black  speck  appear 
out  of  the  side  of  one.  Then  the  shell  cracked  and 
split,  and  I  realized  that  what  I  had  seen  was  the 
beak  of  the  little  bird  within.  In  a  moment  the 
crack  spread,  and  finally,  with  a  tremendous  effort, 
one  half  of  the  blue  shell  slid  off  and  there  in  front 
of  me,  snugly  resting  in  the  other  half  of  the  shell, 
was  the  naked  baby-thrush,  its  long  neck  curled  down 
beside  its  round  stomach.  Raising  its  blind  head, 
it  pressed  against  the  confining  shell,  while  its  whole 
bare  body  shook  with  the  heart-throbs  of  a  new  life. 
I  realized  that  before  my  eyes  this  bare,  blind  bird 
was  passing  from  one  world  into  another;  and  when 
the  birth  was  finally  accomplished  and,  free  from 
the  prisoning  shell,  the  little  thrush  lay  panting  on 
the  bottom  of  the  soft  nest,  I  turned  away  with  a 
certain  sense  of  uplift  that  I  had  watched  a  fellow 
creature  win  a  battle  for  a  higher  life. 

It  was  another  wood  thrush 's  nest  that  same  week, 
in  the  deep  of  a  thicket,  that  gave  me  still  another 
experience.  The  nest  was  in  a  tiny  bush  much 
lower  than  I  have  ever  found  a  wood  thrush's  nest 
since.  When  the  mother  thrush  left  the  nest,  she 
wasted  no  time  in  idle  alarm-notes,  but,  circling 
around  the  bush,  flew  straight  for  my  face.  I  ducked, 
and  she  went  over  me,  only  to  turn  and  come  back; 
and  if  I  had  not  guarded  myself  by  striking  at  her 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  93 

with  my  hands,  I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that  she 
would  have  struck  me  with  her  beak. 

In  only  one  other  instance  in  many  years  of  bird 's- 
nesting  have  I  ever  been  actually  attacked  by  a  nest- 
ing bird.  Once  in  the  twilight  I  had  found  my  first 
and  last  nest  of  a  Kentucky  warbler  on  the  edge  of 
a  wood.  Taking  a  short  cut  through  the  trees,  I  was 
instantly  assailed  by  a  pair  of  screech-owls,  which 
flew  directly  at  my  face,  snapping  their  beaks  and 
making  little  wailing  notes.  The  light  was  so  dim 
and  their  flight  so  swift,  that  I  actually  ran  out  into 
the  open,  fearing  lest  they  might  land  with  beak  or 
claw  on  my  eyes. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  that  I  found  in  a  white- 
thorn bush  the  little  horse-hair  nest  of  the  chipping 
sparrow.  This  last  summer,  in  the  depths  of  Northern 
Canada,  while  hunting  for  such  rare  nests  as  the  bay- 
breasted,  the  yellow-palm  and  the  Tennessee  war- 
blers, I  found  the  same  little  horse-hair  home  of  the 
chipping  sparrow.  I  thought  with  this  my  last,  as 
I  did  with  my  first,  that  there  are  no  eggs  of  Amer- 
ican birds  more  beautiful  than  those  little  blue, 
brown-flecked  eggs  of  the  dear  gentle  little  chippy. 

That  same  day,  on  the  edge  of  the  thick  woods  near 
the  schoolhouse,  I  found  swinging  from  maple  sap- 
lings, four  and  five  feet  from  the  ground,  the  beauti- 
ful little  woven  baskets,  thatched  on  the  outside  with 
white  birch-bark  and  lined  within  with  pine-needles, 
of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  with  the  black  line  through 
and  the  white  line  above  her  red  eye.  In  the  vast. 
bare  hardhack   pasture  on  the  slope  of  Pond  Hill, 


94  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

I  watched  a  field  sparrow  fly  down  under  a  hardhack 
bush  with  a  bug  in  its  beak.  Hurrying  there,  I 
found  on  the  ground,  concealed  by  the  bush,  her 
little  nest  of  woven  grass,  with  four  little  field 
sparrows  inside,  whose  gaping  beaks  kept  both  father 
and  mother  field  sparrow  busy  all  day  to  fill  them. 
As  the  parent  birds  flitted  around  me,  I  could  see 
plainly  the  pink  beak  which  distinguishes  the  field 
sparrow  from  all  others  of  its  family.  Beside  the 
brook,  among  the  cat-tails  on  the  ground,  I  found 
the  rough  nest  of  the  red-winged  blackbird,  with  its 
four  eggs  scrawled  with  strange  black  hieroglyphics. 
The  fourth  day  was  another  treasure-trove  day. 
Just  at  dawn,  in  a  dew-drenched  thicket  of  spirea, 
I  found  three  nests  not  six  feet  apart.  In  one,  root- 
lined  and  thatched  with  strips  of  grape-vine  bark, 
glowed  the  four  deep  blue  eggs  of  the  cat  bird. 
The  next  nest,  singularly  deep  and  made  of  dried 
grass,  was  owned  by  a  black-blue  indigo  bunting 
who,  in  spite  of  his  intense  coloring,  seemed  con- 
tent with  three  washed-out  white  eggs  and  a  light- 
brown  wife.  On  the  last  nest  the  bird  was  brooding, 
and  showed  the  golden-crowned  head  and  the  chest- 
nut band  along  the  side  which  has  given  its  name  to 
the  chestnut-sided  warbler.  The  nest,  a  humble 
affair  of  grass  and  hair,  sheltered  four  wonderful 
eggs,  pink-white,  spotted  at  the  largest  end  with 
flecks  of  chocolate  and  lilac  and  umber.  Back  of 
the  thickets  tottered  an  old,  old  house.  For  fifty 
years  it  had  been  leased  to  the  wild-folk.  As  I  looked 
at  it,  one  of  them  flitted  out  of  the  cellar-way,  a  gray 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  95 

bird  whose  name-note  was  phoebe.  Just  within  the 
doorway,  on  an  oak  beam,  I  found  her  new-finished 
nest  of  fresh,  bright,  green  moss. 

All  that  morning  I  followed  orchid-haunted  paths 
through  dim  aisles  of  high  pine  trees  without  finding 
a  nest.    When  I  gave  up  hunting  for  them,  they  ap- 
peared.   Toward  noon  I  had  put  together  a  pocket 
rod  and  was  wading  down  the  bed  of  a  little  brook, 
to   catch  a  few  trout  for  lunch.    In  a  little  pool  at 
the  foot  of  a  laurel  bush,  I  landed  a  plump  jeweled 
fish.    I  cast  again,  and  my  hook  caught  a  low  hang- 
ing branch.    I  gave  the  bough  a  shake,  and  from  the 
foot  of  the  bush  a  pale  brown  bird  stole  out.    A 
moment  later  I  was  looking  at  my  first  veery's  nest. 
It  seemed  strange  to  meet  face  to  face  this  dweller  in 
the  dark  woods.   Usually  I  had  heard  his  weird  harp- 
notes  from  the  cool  green  depths  of  the  thicket,  but 
with  never  a  glimpse  of  the  singer.   To-day  he  sat  on 
a  low  branch  within  six  feet,  and  I  could  plainly  see 
the  faintly  marked  breast  and  the  white  spot  under 
the  beak  which  are  the  field-marks  of  the  veery,  or 
Wilson's  thrush.    Both  birds  flittered  around  me  like 
ghosts,    saying    faintly,    "Wheer!    wheer!    wheer!" 
The  nest  was  built  just  off  the  ground  and  lined  with 
brown  leaves,  and  held  four  of  the  most  vivid  blue 
eggs  owned  by  any  of  the  bird-folk.   The  eggs  of  the 
cat-bird  are  of  a  deeper  blue,  but  the  strange  vivid 
brightness  of  the  veery's  eggs  makes  all  other  blue 
eggs  look  faded  by  contrast. 

All  too  soon  my  glorious  week  of  treasure-hunting 
drew  to  a  close.    For  the  last  day  were  reserved  the 


96  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

best  two  of  my  bird-adventures.  During  the  morn- 
ing I  had  followed  a  wood-road  which  led  through 
dark  woods  into  a  marsh,  and  then  up  a  wooded 
slope.  I  sat  down  to  rest,  and  suddenly  saw  a  gray 
bird  fly  up  into  a  tree,  alight  on  a  limb,  and  before 
my  eyes  suddenly  disappear.  Bringing  my  field- 
glasses  to  bear,  I  discovered  saddled  on  that  limb  a 
lichen-covered  nest,  which  looked  so  exactly  like  the 
limb  itself  that,  if  the  bird  had  not  shown  me  her 
home,  I  would  never  by  any  chance  have  discovered 
it.  It  was  a  far  climb  for  an  invalid,  but  I  felt  that 
life  was  not  worth  living  unless  I  could  have  a  closer 
look  at  this  strange  nest  which  had  flashed  into  sight 
right  before  my  eyes.  Gruntingly  I  clambered  up  the 
trunk,  and  for  the  first  time  looked  into  the  beauti- 
ful nest  of  the  wood  pewee.  It  was  lined  with  down 
and  held  four  perfect  eggs,  pearly-white  and  flecked 
with  heavy  brown  and  black  spots. 

For  a  long  time  I  sat  perched  aloft,  rejoicing  over 
every  perfect  detail  of  that  nest  and  the  eggs,  and 
studying  the  gentle,  silent,  anxious  parent  birds,  of  a 
dark-brownish-gray  with  two  white  wing-bars  and 
whitish  under-parts.  I  went  back  to  lunch  feeling 
that  my  last  day  had  been  well  spent.  However,  the 
best  was  yet  to  be.  I  realize  from  later  experiences 
in  bird 's  nesting  that  all  this  has  an  impossible  sound, 
but  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  setting  down  the  happen- 
ings of  this  week  of  treasure-hunting  exactly  as  they 
came,  and  as  they  appear  in  the  battered  canvas- 
bound  note-book  in  which  I  scrawled  my  field-notes 
that  summer.    The  Wild  Folk  had  evidently  decided 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  97 

to  celebrate  my  discovery  of  their  world  by  granting 
me  seven  days  of  nest-finding  rarely  vouchsafed  even 
to  veteran  ornithologists. 

It  was  at  twilight,  and  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  an 
old  orchard  where  grew  a  white-oak  tree.  As  I 
looked  away  across  the  valley,  I  heard  a  humming 
noise,  and  through  the  dimming  light  saw  a  tiny 
bird  buzzing  through  the  air  just  overhead.  As  I 
watched,  she  alighted  on  a  long  limb  about  ten  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  even  an  ignoramus  like  myself 
could  recognize  the  long  curved  beak  of  the  humming- 
bird. This  one  had  a  white  instead  of  a  crimson 
throat,  which,  I  was  to  learn,  marked  the  female. 
For  an  instant  the  little  bird  perched  on  the  limb 
just  over  my  head,  and  then  suddenly  sidled  toward 
what  seemed  a  tiny  knot,  but  was  not.  Lest  I  be 
betrayed  into  further  puns  unworthy  the  fair  fame  of 
a  bird-student,  I  hasten  to  add  that  I  had  found  the 
nest  of  a  ruby-throated  hummingbird. 

It  was  too  dark  that  evening  to  examine  it  more 
closely,  but  by  sunrise  the  next  morning  I  was  on 
the  spot  with  a  step-ladder,  and  with  more  delight 
than  I  have  ever  had  in  a  nest  since,  looked  down 
into  the  tiny  lichen-covered,  cobweb-stitched,  thistle- 
down-lined nest  of  this  smallest  of  all  our  birds. 
Within  were  two  tiny  white  eggs.  The  opening  of 
the  nest  was  just  about  the  size  of  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar,  and  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  two  little 
birds  could  later  be  brooded  and  fed  and  reared  in 
such  a  tiny  cradle.  The  nest  itself  was  saddled  on 
the  limb,  which  was  perhaps  four  inches  in  diameter. 


98  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

It  was  so  placed  that  the  bottom  of  the  nest  did  not 
rest  directly  on  the  limb,  but  hung  a  little  to  one 
side,  so  that  the  future  little  birds  would  rest  in  the 
swing  of  a  hammock  rather  than  on  the  hard  founda- 
tion of  the  branch  itself.  The  nest  was  lashed  to  the 
limb  with  strand  after  strand  of  cobwebs  carried  and 
wound  around  and  around,  until  the  whole  structure 
was  firmly  anchored  by  myriads  of  almost  invisible 
but  tough  little  ropes.  Inside,  it  was  lined  with  the 
soft  yellowish-white  fluffy  fleece  found  inside  milk- 
weed pods.  Next  came  a  layer  of  reddish-brown  seed- 
husks,  all  bound  and  lashed  together  with  a  network 
of  cobwebs.  On  the  outside  was  a  layer  of  dull 
ashy-green  lichen-scales.  Each  minute  separate 
fragment  was  fitted  into  a  mosaic  which  covered 
the  whole  nest.  Outside  of  everything  was  another 
almost  invisible  network  of  cobwebs,  like  the  net  of 
a  balloon  which  holds  the  round  globe  within. 
There  must  have  been  hundreds  of  gossamer  strands 
making  up  this  network,  all  so  fine  that  only  by  the 
closest  examination  could  they  be  seen. 

Every  bird's  nest  is  a  miracle,  but  I  don't  know 
any  that  is  such  a  marvel  of  industry  and  ingenuity 
and  beauty  as  that  of  the  ruby-throated  bird.  Later 
on,  when  Mrs.  Hummingbird  was  through  with  her 
home,  I  collected  it,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing just  what  the  building  of  that  nest  meant  to 
her  — for,  sad  to  say,  Mr.  H.  B.  never  moves  a 
claw  to  help  in  home-building.  The  labor  of  col- 
lecting the  spider-webs  alone,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  hundreds  of  lichen-flecks  and  seed-husks,  would 


HIDDEN  TREASURE  99 

seem  to  be  almost  impossible.  On  the  outside  of 
the  nest  I  counted  over  a  hundred  separate  bits 
of  lichen,  and  then  undoubtedly  overlooked  many; 
while  in  the  next  layer  of  seed-husks  there  were 
probably  at  least  three  times  as  many.  Bit  by  bit, 
flake  by  flake,  the  little  worker  had  gathered  her 
material,  and  from  it  had  spun,  and  woven  and  built 
a  nest  which  was  not  only  soft  and  secure  for  her 
little  ones,  but,  when  finished,  was  absolutely  dis- 
guised. No  prowler  on  the  ground  or  pirate  of  the 
air  could  tell  that  nest  from  a  lichen-covered  knot, 
unless,  as  had  been  my  fortune,  the  little  mother 
herself  showed  it  to  them. 

So  endeth  the  tale  of  my  first  treasure-hunting. 
If  you  are  not  one  of  us,  don't  let  another  summer 
go  by  without  joining  our  Order.  You  will  find  a 
wealth  of  happiness  which  no  thief  can  steal  nor  mis- 
fortune lose,  and  which,  as  the  years  go  by,  pays 
ever-increasing  dividends  of  joyous  memories. 


VII 
BIRD'S-NESTING 

It  is  the  best  of  all  out-of-door  sports  bar  none. 
The  thrill  of  hidden  treasure,  the  lure  of  adventure, 
the  joy  of  escape  from  in-door  days — all  these  are 
part  of  it.  Try  it  of  a  May  day,  or  before  sunrise 
some  June  morning.  I  have  a  friend  who  leads  a 
double  life.  During  business  hours  he  is  the  presi- 
dent of  a  bank.  Outside  of  them  he  is  the  most 
abandoned  bird  Vnester  of  my  acquaintance.  If 
his  depositors  could  see  their  president  going  up  the 
side  of  a  perpendicular  oak-tree  with  climbing-irons, 
to  look  at  the  dizzy  home  of  a  red-tail  hawk,  or  pick- 
ing his  way  across  bottomless  bogs  in  search  of  the 
bittern's  nest,  there  would  probably  be  a  run  on  his 
bank. 

I  know  a  woman  seventy-two  years  young,  who 
took  up  bird's-nesting  in  order  to  help  forget  a  great 
sorrow.  While  her  contemporaries  are  dozing  their 
lives  away  in  caps  and  easy-chairs,  she  is  afield  in 
all  sorts  of  weather,  and  sees  more  birds  and  finds 
more  nests  in  a  year  than  the  average  woman  meets 
in  a  lifetime.  Incidentally  she  gets  more  health  and 
happiness  out  of  life  than  any  woman  of  her  age 
whom  I  have  ever  met. 

Another  woman,  in  a  little  town  in  New  Jersey, 
by  the  sudden  death  of  her  husband  was  left  alone 


BIRD'S-NESTING  101 

with  but  little  money  and  no  friends.  Moreover,  her 
doctor  advised  her  that  she  had  only  a  year  at  most 
to  live.  One  day  she  found  the  nest  of  a  prairie 
warbler,  that  little  jewel-casket  lined  with  fern-wool. 
It  held  four  eggs  like  pink-flecked  pearls.  The  very 
next  day  she  bought  a  bird-book,  and  forgot  all 
about  herself,  and  spent  the  happiest  months  of  her 
life  hunting  nests.  At  the  end  of  a  year  in  the  open, 
she  notified  her  indignant  physician  that  she  had 
become  too  much  interested  in  her  hobby  to  confirm 
his  diagnosis.  To-day  she  supports  herself  happily 
by  writing  about  what  she  sees  and  hears  among 
the  wild-folk. 

The  moral  of  all  this  is,  go  bird's-nesting.  This 
past  summer,  practising  what  I  preach,  I  spent  all 
my  spare  holidays  in  May,  June,  and  July  hunting 
rare  nests.  Let  me  say  in  preface  that  I  collect  only 
with  a  note-book  and  a  camera.  Personally,  I  prefer 
to  have  memories  and  notes  and  pictures  of  my 
bird's-nests  rather  than  cabinets  full  of  pierced  and 
empty  eggs;  for  I  believe  that  a  human  who  visits 
his  brethren  of  the  air  as  their  friend  will  find  out 
more  about  them  than  he  who  follows  them  about 
like  a  weasel,  only  to  rob  their  nests. 

The  first  of  my  bird-holidays  was  on  May  20th. 
Four  of  us  were  to  meet  at  Mount  Pocono,  the  high- 
est mountain  in  Pennsylvania,  on  a  hunt  for  the  rare 
nest  of  that  tiny  bird,  the  golden-crowned  kinglet. 
Late  that  evening  we  reached  the  camp  near  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  where  we  were  to  make  our 
headquarters.     Up   there  the  weather  had  harked 


102  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

back  to  March,  and  the  water  froze  on  the  porch 
that  night.  We  pooled  our  blankets  and  curled  up 
together  for  warmth. 

At  one  a.m.  a  whip-poor-will  began  his  loud  night- 
song.  He  always  sings  as  if  he  were  wound  up,  and 
in  a  great  hurry  to  finish  his  song  before  the  mechan- 
ism runs  down.  Later,  in  the  darkness,  we  heard  the 
drumming  like  distant  thunder  of  the  ruffed  grouse. 
One  of  our  party  claims  that  on  this  mountain  the 
grouse  always  drum  at  four- thirty  in  the  morning; 
and  his  stock  as  an  accurate  ornithologist  went  above 
par  when  we  examined  our  watches  and  found  that 
it  was  just  half-past  four.  As  the  darkness  turned 
to  the  dusk  of  dawn,  the  first  day-song  was  the 
beautiful  minor  strain  of  the  white-throated  sparrow. 
"O  Canada,  Canada,  Canada,"  he  fluted.  Then 
came  a  snatch  of  the  wheezing  strain  of  the  song 
sparrow.  Finally,  sweetest  of  all,  sounded  two  or 
three  tantalizing  notes  of  the  hermit  thrush,  pure, 
single,  prolonged  notes  of  wonderful  sweetness,  fol- 
lowed by  two  arpeggio  chords. 

We  were  up  and  out  before  sunrise;  for  he  who 
would  find  rare  nests  must  look  for  them  while  the 
birds  are  laying  or  brooding.  Four  hours  distant, 
back  in  Philadelphia,  summer  had  come.  Here  the 
trees  showed  the  green  tracery  of  early  spring,  and  the 
apple  trees  were  still  in  blossom,  while  everywhere 
the  woods  were  white  with  the  long  pure  snow-petals 
of  the  shadblow.  Some  day  we  four  are  going  to  fol- 
low Spring  north,  bird's-nesting  all  the  way,  until 
within  the  Arctic  Circle  we  find  her  in  mid-July. 


BIRD'S-NESTING  103 

To-day  the  first  nest  discovered  was  that  of  the 
junco,  or  slate-colored  snowbird,  whose  jingling  little 
song  and  the  flutter  of  whose  white  skirts  were  every- 
where throughout  the  woods.  This  one  was  close 
to  the  camp,  hollowed  out  of  the  side  of  a  bank  of 
pine-needles,  and  held  four  white  eggs  sparsely 
spotted  with  reddish-brown.  The  little  mother-bird 
chipped  frantically,  with  a  clicking  note  which  the 
Architect  said  always  made  him  think  that  she  car- 
ried pebbles  in  her  throat. 

There  were  trillions  of  trilliums,  as  the  Artist 
remarked  epigrammatically.  Some  were  the  common 
trilliums,  of  a  dark  garnet-red.  Besides  these  we 
found  many  of  the  rarer  painted  trilliums  —  a  pure 
white  triangle  with  a  stained  crimson  reversed  tri- 
angle in  the  centre.  All  of  the  trilliums  are  studies 
in  triangles.  The  painted  trillium  has  the  crimson 
triangle  in  the  centre,  set  on  the  white  triangle 
made  up  of  three  petals  which,  in  their  turn,  are  fixed 
in  a  reversed  triangle  of  green  sepals,  and  the  whole 
blossom  is  set  in  a  still  larger  triangle  made  up  of 
three  green  leaves.  Everywhere  the  woods  were  full 
of  purple-pink  rhodora,  the  earliest  of  the  azaleas.  Its 
blossoms  were  silver  flecked  with  deeper-colored  spots. 
The  next  nest  found  was  to  me  the  most  eventful 
one  of  the  day,  although  not  an  especially  rare  one 
on  that  mountain.  The  Architect  was  walking  beside 
one  of  the  strange  hummocks  which  are  thought  to 
have  been  formed  by  buried  tree-trunks  in  the  path 
of  some  old-time  cyclone.  Suddenly  his  eye  was 
caught  by  the  gleam  of  four  sky-blue  eggs  shining 


104  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

like  turquoises  from  a  nest  directly  on  the  ground, 
lined  neatly  with  red-brown  pine-needles  and  with 
dry  dark  green  moss  on  the  outside,  the  hall-mark  of 
the  nest  of  the  hermit  thrush.  In  front  of  it  was  a 
cushion  of  partridge-berry  vines,  with  their  green 
leaves  and  red  berries,  while  blueberry  fronds,  cov- 
ered with  tender  green  leaves,  arched  over  the  nest, 
and  sprays  of  ground-pine  sheltered  its  sides.  It  was 
a  fitting  home  for  the  beautiful  twilight  singer.  The 
eggs  of  a  hermit  thrush  actually  seem  to  gleam  from 
the  ground,  unlike  the  mottled  and  speckled  and 
clouded  eggs  of  most  ground-nesters. 

As  the  sun  came  up,  the  whole  mountain-side  rang 
with  bird-songs.  There  was  the  abrupt  strain  of  the 
magnolia  warbler,  who  to  my  ears  says,  "AVheedle, 
wheedle,  whee-chee. "  The  black-and-white  warbler 
sang  like  a  tiny,  creaking  wheel,  as  he  ran  up  and 
down  tree-trunks.  Down  in  the  meadows  beyond 
the  lake,  the  long-tailed  brown  thrasher  said,  "Hello, 
hello!  Come  over  here,  come  over  here.  There  he 
goes,  there  he  goes.  Whoa,  whoa,  ha-ha,  ha-ha." 
If  you  do  not  believe  my  reading  of  his  song,  listen 
the  next  time  one  sings  to  you,  and  see  if  these  are 
not  his  exact  words.  Overhead  we  often  heard  the 
squeal  of  the  red-shouldered  hawk,  sounding  almost 
like  the  cry  of  the  blue  jay.  Then  there  was  the  loud 
yet  gentle  warble  of  the  purple  finch;  and  once  we 
saw  a  beautiful  rose-red  male  and  his  gray-brown 
wife  feeding  each  other  on  a  limb  like  a  pair  of  love- 
birds. Another  song  which  was  interesting  to  me, 
because  almost  new,  was  that  of  the  solitary  or  blue- 


BIRD'S-NESTING  105 

headed  vireo,  who  sang,  "See,  see  me-e.  See  me, 
you!  you!"  His  whole  song  is  in  couplets.  The 
Artist  said  that  my  rendering  was  too  imaginative, 
and  that  what  the  bird  really  said  was  "Che-wee  — 
che-woo,  che-wee  —  chu,  elm,"  which  perhaps  is 
more  accurate. 

Through  appalling  swamps  and  tangled  thickets  of 
rhododendron  we  were  led  by  the  Banker,  who  had 
highly  resolved  not  to  return  without  a  sight  of  the 
golden-crowned  kinglet's  nest.  Once  we  came  to  a 
large  spruce  in  which  had  been  cut,  in  the  living 
wood,  great  square  holes  like  those  in  bar-posts. 
On  one  side  we  counted  five,  on  another  three, 
while  on  the  opposite  side  were  no  less  than  ten, 
with  a  new  one  on  the  top  cut  right  into  the  solid 
heart-wood.  It  was  a  feeding-tree  of  the  great 
pileated  woodpecker  of  the  North,  a  magnificent 
black  and  white  bird  with  a  scarlet  crest,  nearly  the 
size  of  a  crow.  All  that  morning  we  searched  in  vain 
for  the  kinglet's  nest.  Only  as  we  came  back  to  the 
cabin  at  noon  for  lunch,  were  our  hopes  raised. 

As  we  walked  down  the  trail,  not  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  cabin-entrance,  in  a  spruce  tree,  the  Banker 
spied  a  great  hanging  nest  made  of  wool  and  lined 
with  feathers,  from  the  top  of  which  flew  the  only 
golden-crowned  kinglet  which  we  saw  that  day,  with 
the  orange  patch  on  the  top  of  his  tiny  head  edged 
with  black  and  yellow.  The  nest  was  empty,  but 
the  Banker  felt  that  he  had  made  the  great  discovery 
of  his  life  and  discoursed  learnedly  on  the  industry 
of  this  tiny  bird,  which  could  find  and  carry  such  a 


106  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

mass  of  wool  and  build  a  nest  at  least  a  hundred  times 
larger  than  itself.  It  was  not  until  a  month  later 
that  he  was  reluctantly  convinced  that  what  he  had 
found  was  the  nest  of  a  deer-mouse. 

That  afternoon  we  skirted  the  little  lake  and  saw, 
not  forty  feet  above  us,  a  bald  eagle  flying  down 
toward  us  with  its  snowy  neck  and  pure  white  tail. 
He  flew  with  four  or  five  quick  flaps,  and  then  would 
soar.  In  the  distance  we  saw  another  eagle  pursued 
by  a  scurrilous  cawing  crow.  The  eagle  flew  over  to 
the  shore,  and  alighted  and  drank,  and  then,  standing 
on  the  edge  of  the  water,  seemed  to  be  fishing.  His 
pursuer  also  alighted  just  behind  him,  and  walked 
close  up.  Every  time  the  eagle  would  turn,  the  crow 
would  scuttle  off,  like  some  little  blackguard  boy 
following  and  reviling  one  of  his  elders.  Several 
times  the  crow  flew  over  the  head  of  the  eagle  and 
tried  to  gain  courage  enough  to  make  a  dab  at  him. 
Through  it  all  the  king  of  birds  paid  absolutely  no 
attention  to  his  tormentor.  The  comparison  of  the 
crow  with  the  eagle  gave  some  idea  of  the  size  of 
the  latter.  He  seemed  over  three  times  as  large  as 
the  crow. 

It  was  the  Banker  again,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
lake,  who  made  the  next  discovery.  We  were  hunting 
a  little  apart  through  the  woods,  when  he  announced 
from  where  he  stood  that  he  had  just  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  Brewster 's  warbler.  For  the  benefit  of  other  bird- 
students  who  are  in  my  class,  let  me  write  what  I 
learned  that  day  in  regard  to  said  bird.  A  Brewster's 
warbler  is  the  rare  hybrid  between  the  golden-winged 


BIRD'S-NESTING  107 

warbler  and  the  blue-winged  warbler,  more  closely 
resembling  the  golden- winged.  When  it  takes  after 
the  blue-winged,  it  is  called  the  Lawrence  warbler. 
This  specimen  we  studied  feather  by  feather  for  over 
half  an  hour  at  short  range,  and  the  experts  of  the 
party  pronounced  it  beyond  peradventure  a  Brew- 
ster's warbler,  —  a  bird  not  seen  often  in  a  lifetime. 
It  was  solid  blue  on  the  back,  pearly  white  under- 
neath, and  showed  white  tail-feathers,  together  with 
a  greenish-yellow  patch  on  the  very  crown  of  its  head. 
It  had  two  broad  yellow  wing-bars,  one  large  and  the 
other  small,  and  its  white  throat,  innocent  of  any 
black  mark,  was  the  field-mark  by  which  it  could  be 
told  from  either  of  its  parents  or  from  its  half-brother 
the  Lawrence. 

It  was  the  Artist  who  made  the  last  discovery  of 
the  day.  Near  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  he  gave  a 
piercing  cry  and  announced  that  he  had  discovered 
an  Indian  cobra.  We  all  hastened  to  his  rescue,  and 
saw  a  fearsome  sight.  Coiled  in  front  of  him,  hissed 
and  struck  a  bloated,  swollen  snake,  with  flattened 
head  and  up-turned  snout.  It  was  none  other  than 
the  American  puff-adder,  which  ought  to  be  called 
the  bluff  adder  since,  in  spite  of  its  threats,  it  is  never 
known  to  bite,  and  is  really  a  harmless  and  gentle 
snake. 

The  last  thing  the  writer  can  remember  of  that  trip 
was  hearing,  as  he  fell  asleep,  the  Architect  tell  the 
Banker  of  the  time  he  found  two  loon 's  eggs,  which  a 
man  had  discovered  on  the  top  of  a  muskrat's  house 
and  put  under  one  of  his  hens  to  hatch. 


108  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

The  next  day  we  were  back  in  Philadelphia  and 
summer  again,  with  a  list  of  seventy-six  different 
kinds  of  birds  identified  on  the  trip  and  a  total  of 
ten  nests  found. 

A  few  days  later  I  went  bird's-nesting  with  an- 
other friend  in  the  very  heart  of  the  city  of  Cam- 
den. Through  the  manufacturing  district  a  sluggish 
creek  winds  its  way  past  factory  after  factory.  There, 
under  a  clump  of  golden-rod  leaves,  he  showed  me 
the  nest  of  a  spotted  sandpiper,  made  of  reeds  lined 
with  grass,  containing  four  eggs  —  dark-brown  eggs, 
spotted  at  the  larger  end  with  chocolate  marks,  and 
coming  to  a  sharp  point  at  the  other  end.  Later  on, 
I  found  another  nest  in  the  middle  of  a  mass  of 
horse-tail.  Then,  in  the  very  centre  of  a  base-ball 
diamond,  not  far  from  second  base,  on  the  naked 
ground,  he  showed  me  a  killdeer's  nest — a  hollow 
scraped  in  the  gravel,  with  four  eggs  which  so 
matched  the  stones  that  they  had  escaped  the  notice 
of  the  players  all  around  them.  On  the  bank  of  the 
creek  we  found  song  sparrows'  nests,  and  out  in  a 
patch  of  marsh,  on  the  very  last  tussock,  the  dried- 
grass  nest  of  a  swamp  sparrow,  which  was  much 
thicker  than  the  song  sparrow 's,  while  the  four  eggs 
were  of  a  marbled  warm  brown  and  white. 

Then  we  pushed  on,  still  in  the  city  limits,  until 
we  came  to  an  old  quarry-bed  half -filled  with  water, 
which  had  turned  into  a  noisome  bit  of  marshland. 
Pushing  a  rickety  raft  out  through  the  muck  and  wa- 
ter-reeds of  the  stagnant  water,  my  friend  showed  me, 
on  a  clump  of  pickerel  weed  on  a  sunken  stick,  a  nest 


BIRD'S-NESTING  109 

of  twigs  on  which  was  sitting  a  strange  bird.  Its 
long  sharp  beak  pointed  straight  skyward.  Its  back 
was  a  combination  of  shades  of  soft  reddish-browns, 
while  its  breast  was  reddish-brown  streaked  with 
white.  The  most  curious  things  about  it  were  its 
eyes.  They  were  almost  all  pupil,  with  a  bright 
golden  ring  around  the  extreme  edge,  and  stared 
at  us  unwinkingly  like  a  great  snake.  Although  we 
came  close  up,  the  bird  absolutely  refused  to  leave 
her  nest,  and  stabbed  viciously  at  a  stick  which  I 
poked  out  toward  her.  Finally,  not  daring  to  trust 
my  hand  within  reach  of  that  stabbing  yellow  beak, 
I  lifted  her  up  bodily  with  the  long  stick,  enough  to 
show  five  whitish-blue  eggs  rounded  at  each  end. 
It  was  the  rare  nest  and  eggs  of  the  least  bittern,  a 
bird  a  little  over  a  foot  long,  which  has  a  strange 
habit  of  clutching  with  its  claws  the  stalks  of  reeds 
and  walking  up  them  like  a  monkey.  As  we  left, 
amid  the  clicking  notes  of  the  cricket-frogs  and 
the  boom  of  the  bull-frogs  we  heard  a  very  low 
"Cluck,  cluck,  cluck."  It  was  the  least  bittern 
singing  the  only  song  she  knew,  in  celebration  of  the 
fact  that  she  still  had  her  eggs  safe. 

The  Architect  and  myself  decided  to  travel  once 
again,  later  in  the  season,  to  the  mountain,  in  the 
hope  that  we  might  make  a  better  nesting  record. 
We  reached  the  cabin  on  June  17th,  and  again  found 
ourselves  back  in  spring.  The  peepers  were  still 
calling,  and  there  were  wild  lilies-of-the-valley  in  the 
woods,  and  pink  rose-hearted  twin-flowers,  with 
their   scent   of   heliotrope.     Everywhere   grew   the 


110  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

dwarf  cornel,  or  bunch-berry,  with  its  four  white 
petals  —  the  smallest  of  the  dogwoods,  which  grows 
only  a  few  inches  high. 

The  first  nest  was  found  by  me.  It  was  built  on  a 
foundation  of  tiny  twigs  in  a  bush,  and  had  a  two- 
story  effect,  the  upper  story  being  made  of  fine  grass. 
As  I  came  near  the  bush,  a  magnificent  chestnut- 
sided  warbler,  with  the  bay  patches  on  his  sides  and 
his  yellow  crown,  made  such  an  outcry  that  I  sus- 
pected the  nest  and  finally  found  it.  There  were 
three  eggs  in  it  and  one  tiny  young  bird,  smaller 
than  a  bumblebee.  Everywhere  grew  the  beautiful 
northern  azalea,  of  a  clear  pink  with  a  perfume  like 
sandal-wood.  The  Canadian  warbler,  with  its  black 
necklace  on  its  yellow  breast,  sang  everywhere  a 
song  which  sounded  like,  "Ea-sy,  ea-sy,  you,  you"; 
and  we  heard  also  the  orange-throated  Blackburnian 
warbler's  wiry,  thin  notes. 

Near  the  top  of  the  mountain  are  two  sphagnum 
bogs,  difficult  to  find,  but  the  home  of  many  a  rare 
bird.  We  finally  located  the  larger  of  these  bogs, 
and  there  the  Artist  made  the  great  discovery  of 
the  day.  Right  out  from  underneath  his  foot,  as 
he  splashed  through  the  wet  moss,  flew  a  yellow- 
bellied  flycatcher,  which  gives  a  note  like  the  wood- 
pewee  and  whose  nest  had  been  found  only  once 
before  in  the  state  of  Pennsylvania.  Right  in  front 
of  him,  hidden  in  the  deep  moss,  was  this  long-sought 
nest.  It  was  set  deep  in  club-moss  and  lined  with 
white  pine-needles,  and  contained  four  pinkish- 
white  eggs  with  an  aureole  around  the  larger  end, 


BIRD'S-NESTING  111 

with  light  rufous  markings.  It  was  so  overshadowed 
with  wintergreen  leaves  and  aronia  and  bunch- 
berries  that,  even  after  the  Artist  had  pointed  out 
the  place  to  me,  it  was  with  very  great  difficulty  that 
I  found  it. 

As  we  crossed  the  marsh,  I  heard  the  song  of  the 
olive-backed  thrush,  which  sounds  to  me  like  a  cross 
between  the  notes  of  the  wood  thrush  and  the 
strange  harp-chords  of  the  veery  or  Wilson  thrush. 
In  another  part  of  the  bog  sang  the  rare  Nashville 
warbler,  whose  nest  we  have  yet  to  find.  Its  song 
starts  like  the  creak  of  the  black-and-white  warbler 
and  ends  like  a  chipping  sparrow.  In  a  marsh  be- 
yond the  sphagnum  bog,  I  found  the  nest  of  a  Mary- 
land yellowthroat,  set  in  a  yellow  viburnum  shrub 
some  six  inches  from  the  ground.  This  nest  is  usually 
on  the  ground.  It  was  set  just  as  a  gem  is  set  in  a 
ring,  the  setting  consisting  of  leaves  which  come  up 
into  five  or  six  points.  Held  by  the  points  is  a  little 
cup  of  grass.  The  eggs  were  the  most  beautiful  we 
saw  that  day  —  of  a  pinkish- white  with  a  wreath  of 
chestnut  blotches  around  the  larger  end.  On  the  far- 
ther side  of  the  marsh,  a  white-throated  sparrow  flew 
out  from  in  front  of  me;  and  after  a  long  search  I 
found  its  nest  —  a  little  moss-rimmed  cup  of  gray- 
green,  yellow  grass,  containing  four  eggs  of  a  faint 
blue  clouded  with  chestnut,  which  was  massed  in 
large  blotches  at  the  larger  end.  With  the  four  eggs 
was  a  dumpy  young  cow-bird,  that  fatal  changeling 
which  is  the  death  of  so  many  little  birds.  In  this 
case  we  saved  four  prospective  white-throated  spar- 


112  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

rows  from  being  starved  to  death  by  their  ugly 
foster-brother.  The  white-throat  is  a  dear,  gentle, 
little  bird.  Even  its  alarm-notes  are  soft,  instead  of 
being  harsh  and  disagreeable  like  those  of  most  other 
sparrows. 

The  next  day  I  found  a  song  sparrow 's  nest  and  a 
catbird's  nest,  and  then  in  the  midst  of  dark,  cool 
woods,  where  an  icy  brown  trout-brook  ran  through 
a  mass  of  rhododendron,  a  thrush  suddenly  slipped 
away  ahead  of  me  out  of  a  clump  of  rhododendron 
bushes.  The  light  color  of  the  bird  and  the  lighter 
spotted  breast  marked  it  as  a  veery  or  Wilson 
thrush.  On  looking  at  the  bush,  I  saw  the  nest,  a 
rough  one  made  of  hemlock  twigs  matted  together, 
and  lined  with  pine-needles  with  a  basis  of  leaves. 
Inside  were  four  small  eggs  of  a  heavenly  blue. 
They  are  among  the  smallest  of  all  of  our  pure-blue 
eggs. 

That  same  day  the  Artist  found  a  beautiful  nest 
of  a  black-throated-blue  warbler,  also  set  in  a  rhodo- 
dendron bush.  The  nest  was  made  of  the  light  inner 
bark  of  the  rhododendron,  which  was  of  a  bright  yel- 
low. Inside,  it  was  lined  with  black  and  tan  rootlets 
so  fine  that  they  look  almost  like  horse-hair.  These 
are  the  same  rootlets  which  the  magnolia  warbler 
uses  to  line  its  nest,  and  up  to  the  present  time  no 
ornithologist  whom  I  have  met  has  been  able  to 
identify  them. 

"Can  you  go  to  Maryland  to-day  on  a  bird-trip?" 
telephoned  the  Banker. 


BIRD'S-NESTING  113 

"No,"  said   I,  "lawyers  have  to  work  for  a  liv- 
ing." 

"There'll  be  blue-gray  gnatcatchers  and  mocking- 
birds and  Acadian  flycatchers,"  he  tried  again. 

"No,"  saidl. 

"I've  found  out  where  the  prothonotary  warbler 
lives,"  he  said  once  more. 

"No,"  saidl. 

"We  may  find  its  nest,"  he  continued.    "No  one 
up  here  has  seen  one  for  years. " 

"No,"  said  I  firmly.  "What  time  does  the  train 
start?" 

Sunset  found  me  Somewhere  in  Maryland.  I  was 
squeezed  into  a  buggy  built  for  one,  along  with  the 
Miller,  at  whose  house  we  were  intending  to  stop, 
and  the  Banker,  who  is  constructed  on  flowing, 
generous  lines.  We  drove  creakingly  through  miles 
and  miles  of  blossoming  peach  orchards.  At  the 
Miller's  house  we  ate  the  worst  supper  that  money 
could  buy.  The  Miller's  wife  had  evidently  been 
born  a  bad  cook,  and  by  careful  practice  had  become 
worse.  It  was  over  at  last,  and  the  Banker  and  I 
retired  to  a  room  under  the  rafters  which  contained 
one  window  and  a  mountainous  bed.  The  rest  of  the 
space  was  taken  up  by  mosquitoes.  I  undressed, 
jumped  into  the  bed,  and  sank  out  of  sight.  The 
Banker  located  me  by  my  muffled  cries  for  help,  and 
pulled  me  to  the  surface  just  in  time  to  save  my  life. 
Thereafter  we  molded  a  conical  crater  in  that  feather- 
bed and  carefully  fitted  ourselves  in,  leaving  a  large 
air-hole  at  the  top. 


114  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

It  was  a  hot  night.  The  mosquitoes  bit  steadily, 
and  the  feather-bed  was  like  a  furnace  seven  times 
heated.  All  night  long  a  whip-poor-will  called  his 
name  under  our  window  over  three  million  times. 
The  Banker  said  he  counted  the  notes.  Finally,  after 
hours  and  hours  of  agony,  I  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep 
and  was  instantly  awakened  by  the  Banker,  who 
said  it  was  time  to  get  up.  We  breakfasted  on  what 
remained  of  the  corpse  of  the  supper  of  the  night 
before,  which  we  found  on  the  table.  A  few  moments 
later  I  was  morosely  moving  an  alleged  boat  through 
the  mists  of  the  morass. 

Without  further  alliteration,  let  me  chronicle  what 
paid  for  all  the  toil,  hardships  and  privations  of  the 
trip.  It  was  the  sight  of  a  bird  of  burnished  gold 
flashing  through  the  curling  mists.  "Tweet,  tweet, 
tweet,"  he  called  ringingly  as  he  flew.  The  note 
reminded  me  somewhat  of  the  loud  song  of  the 
Kentucky  warbler,  and  the  Banker,  of  the  note  of  the 
solitary  sandpiper.  Every  now  and  then  we  caught 
tantalizing  glimpses  of  this  warbler,  which  never  by 
any  chance  stands  still,  but  flits  here  and  there  among 
the  trees  over  the  water.  From  the  trees  I  constantly 
heard  squeaking  notes,  apparently  of  young  birds. 
They  sounded  everywhere,  and  I  decided  that  the 
whole  marsh  must  be  full  of  nests.  The  Banker 
laughed  at  my  ignorance  and  told  me  that  this  was 
the  note  of  the  blue-gray  gnatcatchers  —  "like  a 
mouse  with  a  toothache,"  as  Chapman  describes  it. 
With  great  difficulty  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  tiny 
bird  here  and  there  among  the  tree-tops,  and  saw 


BIRD'S-NESTING  115 

the  two  long  feathers  of  its  tail,  and  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  gray  and  white  of  its  plumage.  Some  weeks 
before,  the  Banker  had  found  down  there  one  of  its 
rare  and  beautiful  nests,  like  a  large  hummingbird's 
nest,  lined  with  down  and  thatched  on  the  outside 
with  lichens,  and  fastened  to  a  high  bough. 

That  day  I  found  the  first  nest  of  the  prothonotary 
warbler.  This  bird  uses  deserted  woodpeckers'  nests 
in  dead  trees  set  in  marshes,  so  it  was  necessary  to 
paddle  around  to  every  dead  tree  which  showed  a 
hole.  I  finally  saw  a  little  red-birch  stub  sticking 
up  in  the  corner  of  the  marsh,  and  rowing  over  to  it, 
noticed  a  small  hole  in  its  side.  Picking  away  the 
bark,  I  made  it  larger  and  a  piece  of  the  fresh  green 
moss,  from  which  the  nest  of  the  prothonotary 
warbler  is  always  built,  showed  itself.  Imbedded  in 
the  moss  was  a  vivid  orange-yellow  feather,  which 
could  belong  to  no  other  bird.  The  nest  was  just 
built  and  contained  no  eggs. 

The  Banker  found  the  second  nest,  in  a  willow- 
stub  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  in  an  old  downy  wood- 
pecker's  nest.  He  found  it  by  seeing  the  male  bird 
fly  into  the  hole.  Climbing  up  to  the  nest,  he  found 
that  in  it  were  four  young  birds.  Perching  on  a  limb, 
he  sat  about  four  feet  from  the  nest  while  I  was  in  the 
boat  perhaps  ten  feet  away.  The  cock-bird  flew  up 
with  a  May-fly,  making  a  soft  alarm-note  something 
like  that  made  by  a  field  sparrow,  only  gentler.  He 
flew  up  close  to  where  my  friend  sat  and  hesitated 
for  a  long  while.  Finally,  the  hungry  little  birds 
inside   gave   a   prolonged   squeak,   which   probably 


116  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

meant,  "May-flies  immediately ! "  This  was  too 
much  for  Mr.  Prothonotary.  With  a  farewell  look 
at  the  Banker,  he  turned  his  back  and  dived  into  the 
nest,  placing  himself  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  this 
giant  who  was  keeping  guard  over  his  home.  Seven 
times  he  did  this  while  we  watched,  bringing  in  two 
beetles,  a  small  wasp,  a  fly,  and  three  May-flies. 
The  hen-bird  would  come  up  time  and  time  again 
with  a  fly  in  her  beak,  but  never  could  quite  muster 
up  courage  enough  to  go  into  the  nest,  but  absent- 
mindedly  swallowing  the  fly  herself,  would  go  off. 

We  had  a  wonderful  chance  to  study  the  coloring 
of  this  rare  bird.  The  cock-bird  had  a  bright  black 
eye  which  showed  vividly  against  his  yellow  cheek, 
as  did  his  long  black  bill.  His  colors  were  gray, 
yellow,  and  olive.  The  underside  of  his  tail  was  pure 
white,  and  he  had  a  white  edge  to  his  wings,  while 
the  top  of  the  wings  was  greenish-yellow.  The  whole 
head,  throat,  and  breast  were  of  an  intense  golden, 
almost  orange  yellow,  and  the  wings  were  bluish-gray. 
The  bird  itself  was  just  about  the  size  of  the  common 
black-and-white  warbler.  The  female  was  of  the  same 
coloring,  only  much  paler. 

After  that  came  the  tragedy  of  the  day  for  me. 
An  overhanging  bough  knocked  off  my  glasses,  and 
they  sank  in  the  black  waters  of  the  marsh  and  con- 
tinued sunk,  in  spite  of  my  frantic  groping  and  diving 
for  them.  The  rest  of  the  day  I  realized  how  the 
blinded  galley-slaves  felt  who  were  chained  to  the 
oar  in  mediaeval  times.  The  Banker  kindly  described 
to  me  all  the  sixty-five  different  kinds  of  birds  he 


BIRD'S-NESTING  117 

saw  in  that  marsh.  As  my  vision  was  limited  to  a 
range  of  about  two  feet,  I  did  not  see  many  more 
birds  personally.  In  spite  of  my  blinded  condition, 
I  did  discover,  however,  another  prothonotary  's 
nest.  I  had  taken  hold  of  a  rotten  willow-stub  while 
pushing  the  boat  through  a  thicket.  It  broke  in  my 
hand,  and  there,  in  an  exposed  downy  woodpecker's 
hole,  was  a  newly  made  nest  of  green  moss,  with  a 
few  twigs  and  bark-strips  on  top,  but  no  eggs.  The 
fourth  and  last  nest  was  found  by  the  Banker,  again 
in  a  downy 's  hole.  He  saw  something  move  and 
thought  it  was  a  mouse  or  chickadee.  Finally  a 
long  bill  came  out  of  the  hole  and  then  a  head.  It 
was  a  hen  prothonotary  building  her  nest.  She  had 
the  hole  already  filled  with  moss,  and  was  bringing 
in  grass,  and  would  whirl  around  and  around  inside, 
modeling  the  nest  carefully.  Within,  she  had  lined  it 
with  grass,  just  as  a  chipping  sparrow's  nest  is  lined 
with  hair. 

This  was  the  last  nest  of  the  day.  The  Banker 
suggested  that  we  stay  over  another  night,  but  I 
felt  that  home  was  the  best  place  for  a  blind  man. 
My  last  memory  of  the  golden  prothonotary  was 
hearing  him  call,  "Tweet,  tweet,  tweet"  from  the 
willows,  as  we  started  back  to  the  mill. 

The  last  of  my  nesting-trips  was  on  July  7th.  The 
Artist  in  some  mysterious  way  had  learned  the  secret 
of  Tern  Island,  one  of  the  few  places  on  the  New 
Jersey  coast  where  the  Wilson  tern  still  nests.  In  a 
rickety  old  power-boat— probably  it  was  the  first  one 
ever  built— we  traveled  haltingly  through  the  most 


118  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

intricate  channels  imaginable,  and  finally  reached  an 
island  hidden  by  shoals  and  salt-marshes,  but  whose 
farther  beach  faced  the  ocean.  There,  in  a  space 
about  four  hundred  by  one  hundred  feet,  we  found 
seventy  nests  of  tern,  containing  a  hundred  and 
sixty-five  eggs.  Most  of  the  nests  contained  two 
eggs,  some  three,  and  one,  four.  The  nests  were 
merely  hollows  in  the  sand,  lined  with  bits  of  pure- 
white  shell.  The  usual  color  of  the  eggs  was  a  blue- 
green  background,  heavily  blotched  with  chocolate 
blotches,  although  I  found  one  egg  of  a  light  green 
speckled  all  over  with  light-red  specks.  In  only  one 
nest  was  there  a  young  bird.  The  little  chick  lay 
flat  in  the  burning  sun,  while  overhead  hung  the 
mother  tern,  pearl-white  with  black-tipped  wings, 
making  a  grinding,  scolding  note.  The  young  tern 
was  downy  like  a  duckling,  and  had  tiny  red  feet 
and  a  pink  beak  tipped  with  black.  We  put  up  a 
stake  to  mark  the  nest,  and  later  in  the  day,  when 
we  came  back  to  photograph  it,  we  found  that  the 
little  tern  had  crawled  out,  followed  the  shadow 
which  the  stick  had  made,  and  lay  with  its  head  in 
the  scanty  shade  far  away  from  the  nest. 

We  met  other  rare  water-fowl  that  blazing  day. 
We  saw  the  rare  piping  plover,  whose  nest  I  was 
afterwards  to  find  in  Upper  Canada,  black  skimmers, 
with  their  strange  slant-cut  beaks,  black  tern,  least 
tern,  loons,  black-bellied  plover,  and  everywhere 
throughout  the  salt-meadows  enormous  great-blue 
herons. 

This  was  the  last  trip  of  our  quartette  for  the 


BIRD'S-NESTING  119 

summer,  and  we  are  looking  forward  to  many  more 
springs  and  summers  among  the  bird-folk.  Let  me 
end  as  I  began  —  go  bird's-nesting.  Escape  into  the 
open  from  these  narrow  in-door  days,  and  learn  the 
way  to  where  the  wild-folk  dwell.  Seek  their  paterans 
and  share  their  secrets.  In  their  land  you  will  find 
the  help  of  the  hills,  and  hope  wide  as  the  world,  and 
strength  and  youth  and  health  and  happiness  in  full 
measure.    Try  it. 


VIII 
THE  TREASURE-HUNT 

I  have  always  been  of  a  very  treasurous  disposi- 
tion. Such  terms  as  ingots,  doubloons,  and  pieces-of- 
eight  all  my  life  long  have  been  to  me  words  of  power. 
In  spite  of  these  tendencies,  I  cannot  say  that  up 
to  date  I  have  unearthed  much  treasure.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  that  day  when  I  found  a  shiny  quarter 
in  the  mud  on  my  way  to  school.  Instead  of  being 
the  out-cropping  of  a  lode  of  currency,  it  turned  out, 
however,  to  be  only  a  sporadic,  solitary,  companion- 
less  coin.  Even  so,  it  was  no  mean  find.  I  remember 
that  it  brought  into  my  young  life  a  full  pound  of 
peppermint  lozenges  tastefully  decorated  in  red  ink, 
with  mottos  of  simple  diction  and  exquisite  senti- 
ment. "Remember  me,"  and  "I  love  but  dare  not 
tell,"  were  two  of  them,  while  another  was  a  manly 
query  unanswered  across  the  years  which  read, 
"How  about  a  kiss?"  Although  this  treasure-trove 
gained  me  a  fleeting  popularity,  yet,  like  all  treasure, 
it  was  soon  gone.  A  prosaic  teacher  confiscated  the 
bulk  of  the  hoard,  and  all  I  gained  from  it  was  the 
privilege  of  learning  by  heart  a  poem  of  the  late  Mr. 
Longfellow.   To  this  day  those  beautiful  lines,  — 

Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining, 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining, — 

cause  in  me  a  slight  sensation  of  nausea. 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  121 

It  is  probably  due  to  these  lawless  traits  that  in 
my  meridian  years  I  now  hold  the  position  which  I 
do.  Five  and  a  half  days  in  the  week  I  practise  law. 
On  Saturday  and  Sunday  afternoons  and  all  holidays, 
legal  and  illegal,  I  am  the  Captain  of  a  Robber  Band, 
with  all  the  perquisites  and  perils  which  go  with  that 
high  office.  Without  vaunting  myself  unduly,  I  may 
claim  to  have  fairly  deserved  my  position.  Starting 
as  a  mere  friar  in  the  band  of  one  Robin  Hood,  my 
abilities  as  an  outlaw  brought  me  rapidly  to  the  front. 
Thereafter,  when  that  band  was  reorganized,  I  was 
unanimously  offered  the  position  once  held  by  that 
implacable  character  who  knew  the  Sesame  Secret 
and  pursued  a  Mr.  Baba  so  unsuccessfully,  yet  so 
unflinchingly.  Flattered  by  this  recognition  of  qual- 
ities of  leadership  unsuspected  by  an  unthinking 
world,  I  accepted  the  responsibilities  of  the  captaincy. 
They  were  shared  by  First-Lieutenant  Trottie, 
Second-Lieutenant  Honey,  Sergeant  Henny-Penny, 
and  Corporal  Alice-Palace.    There  were  no  privates. 

It  was  on  a  spring  evening  soon  after  the  afore- 
said election  that  the  Band  met.  The  Captain  spoke 
with  the  stern  brevity  which  characterizes  all  great 
leaders. 

"Comrades,"  he  announced,  shutting  the  door 
and  looking  carefully  under  the  sofa  to  make  sure 
that  there  were  no  spies  about,  "I  have  just  heard 
that  there  is  a  treasure  not  many  miles  from  here. 
All  those  in  favor  of  a  treasure-hunt  to-morrow  will 
kindly  make  a  loud  noise. " 

The  vote  was  probably  the  finest  collection  of  as- 


\m  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

sorted  sounds  ever  heard  outside  of  a  ship-yard. 
Right  in  the  middle  of  it,  the  door  burst  open,  and  in 
rushed  Minnie,  the  cook,  with  a  dipper  of  water, 
under  the  impression  that  her  favorite  fear  of  fire  had 
at  last  come  to  pass.  Close  behind  her  was  the 
Quartermaster- General,  sometimes  known  as  Mother, 
while  almost  at  the  same  instant  old  John,  the  gar- 
dener, ran  up  on  the  porch  with  an  axe,  shouting 
hopefully,  "Hould  him!  I'm  comin'!"  under  the 
impression  that  there  was  a  fight  of  sorts  well  under 

way. 

The  voting  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  Captain 
looked  quite  ashamed  as  he  explained.  Mother 
pretended  to  be  very  indignant. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "you'll  all  be  in  terrible 
danger  and  you'll  shout  and  yell  and  scream  and 
bellow  for  help  but  not  one  of  us  will  come,  will  we, 

John?" 

"Divil  a  step,"  called  back  John,  as  he  clumped 
disappointedly  down  the  steps,  his  unused  axe  over 
his  shoulder. 

The  Quartermaster-General  agreed  to  withdraw 
her  threat  only  after  the  Captain  had  pledged  the 
honor  of  the  Band  that  there  should  be  no  further 
disgustful  noises  within  the  house.  Thereafter  there 
were  hurryings  and  skurryings  and  dashings  to  and 
fro,  in. preparation  for  the  great  adventure.  Honey 
put  fresh  rubbers  on  his  trusty  sling-shot,  with 
which  he  could  frequently  hit  a  barn-door  at  five 
paces.  Trottie  oiled  up  the  air-rifle,  which  he  was 
only    allowed   to   use   in    windowless   wildernesses. 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  123 

Henny-Penny  kept  up  such  a  fusillade  with  his  new 
pop-gun,  that  the  Captain  threatened  to  send  him 
forth  unarmed  on  the  morrow  if  he  heard  but  one 
more  pop.  Alice-Palace 's  practice,  however,  was  the 
most  spectacular.  She  had  a  water-pistol  which, 
when  properly  charged,  would  propel  a  stream  of 
water  an  unbelievable  distance.  From  the  bathroom 
door  she  took  a  snap-shot  at  Henny-Penny,  who  was 
approaching  her  confidingly.  The  charge  took  effect 
in  the  very  centre  of  a  large  pink  ear,  and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  Henny-Penny  could  be  convinced 
that  he  was  not  mortally  wounded. 

At  last  the  Captain  ordered  bed  and  perfect  silence 
within  fifteen  minutes,  under  penalty  of  being  shot 
at  sunrise. 

" Nobody  could  n't  shoot  me  at  sunrise, "  boasted 
Corporal  Alice-Palace,  as  she  started  up  the  stairs, 
"'cause  I  would  n't  get  up." 

The  next  morning  at  dawn,  from  the  Captain's 
room  sounded  the  clear  whistle  of  the  cardinal  gros- 
beak—  the  adventure-call  of  the  Band.  Followed 
thumps,  splashings,  and  the  sounds  of  rapid  dressing 
from  the  third  story  where  the  Band  bivouacked. 

"If  there  be  any  here,"  announced  the  Captain 
after  breakfast,  "who  for  the  sake  of  their  wives 
and  families  wish  to  draw  back,  now  is  the  time. 
Once  on  the  way,  it  will  be  too  late. " 

"I  haven't  got  any  wife, "  piped  up  Henny-Penny, 
"nor  any  family  'cept  this  one,  but  I  want  to  come. " 

Similar  sentiments  were  expressed  by  the  rest  of 
the  Band.   The  Captain  said  that  it  made  the  blood 


124  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

run  faster  in  his  shriveled  old  veins  to  have  such 
gallant  comrades. 

Purple  grackles  creaked  and  clattered  in  the  trees, 
and  the  bushes  were  full  of  song-sparrow  notes,  as 
the  Band  hurried  away  from  the  house-line  toward 
the  Land  of  the  Wild-Folk,  where  Romance  still 
dwells  and  adventures  lurk  behind  every  bush. 
A  tottering  stone  chimney  marked  its  boundaries. 
There  old  Roberts  Road  began.  On  and  beyond 
Roberts  Road  anything  might  happen. 

Each  one  of  the  Band,  in  addition  to  the  lethal 
weapons  already  set  forth,  carried  a  note-book  and 
a  pencil  with  which  to  keep  a  list  of  all  birds  seen 
and  heard,  with  notes  on  the  same.  Even  Corporal 
Alice-Palace,  who  was  only  six,  carried  a  blank- 
book  about  the  size  of  a  geography.  To  date  it 
contained  this  single  entry:  "Robbins  eat  wormes. 
I  saw  him  do  it." 

The  Quartermaster-General,  despite  the  difficulty 
of  the  evening  before,  had  seen  to  it  that  the  Band 
carried  with  them  the  very  finest  lunch  that  any 
treasure-hunters  ever  had  since  Pizarro  dined  with 
the  Inca  of  Peru. 

As  they  moved  deep  and  deeper  into  Wild-Folk 
Land  the  air  was  full  of  bird-songs.  The  Captain 
made  them  stop  and  listen  to  the  singing  sparrows. 
First  there  was  the  song  sparrow,  who  begins  with 
three  notes  and  wheezes  a  little  as  he  sings.  It  took 
them  longer  to  learn  the  quieter  song  of  the  vesper 
sparrow,  with  the  flash  of  white  in  his  tail-feathers. 
His  song  always  starts  with  two  dreamy,  contralto 


THE  TREASURE-HUNT  125 

notes  and  dies  away  in  a  spray  of  soprano  twitter- 
ings. Then  there  were  the  silver  flute-notes  of  the 
little  pink-beaked  field  sparrow,  which  they  were  to 
hear  later  across  darkling  meadows,  and  the  strange 
minor  strains  of  the  white-throated  sparrow. 

Before  long,  a  sudden  thirst  came  upon  Sergeant 
Henny-Penny.  Fortunately  they  were  near  the 
bubbling  spring  that  marked  the  beginning  of  Fox 
Valley,  and  the  whole  Band  halted  and  drank  in  the 
most  advanced  military  manner,  to  wit,  by  bending 
the  rims  of  their  felt  hats  into  a  cup.  This  method 
the  Captain  assured  them  was  far  superior  to  the  more 
usual  system  of  lying  flat  on  their  tummies,  and  had 
the  approval  of  all  great  military  leaders  from 
Gideon  down. 

Right  in  the  very  midst  of  their  drinking,  there 
sounded  from  the  thicket  a  hurried  warble  of  a 
mellow  timbre,  the  wood-wind  of  the  sparrow  orches- 
tra, and  they  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  gray 
and  tawny  which  is  worn  only  by  the  fox  sparrow, 
the  largest  of  the  sparrows  and  the  sweetest  and  rar- 
est singer  of  them  all.  A  moment  later  a  song  spar- 
row sang.  When  he  stopped,  the  strain  was  taken 
up  by  the  fox  sparrow  in  another  key.  Three  times 
through  he  sang  the  twelve-note  melody  of  the  song 
sparrow,  and  his  golden  voice  made  the  notes  of  the 
other  sound  pitifully  thin  and  reedy.  Then  the  fox 
sparrow  threw  in  for  good  measure  a  few  extempo- 
raneous whistled  strains  of  his  own,  and  seemed  to 
wait  expectantly  —  but  the  song  sparrow  sang  no 
more. 


126  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Through  the  long  narrow  valley,  hidden  between 
two  green  hills,  marched  the  Band,  following  the  hid- 
den safe  path  that  generations  of  foxes  had  made 
through  the  very  middle  of  a  treacherous  marsh. 
As  the  road  bent  in  toward  Darby  Creek,  there 
sounded  the  watchman's  rattle  of  the  first  kingfisher 
they  had  heard  that  year;  and  as  they  came  to  the 
creek  itself,  a  vast  blue-gray  bird  with  a  long  neck 
and  bill  flapped  up  ahead  of  them.  It  was  so  enor- 
mous that  Alice-Palace  was  positive  that  it  was  a 
roc;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  the  great  blue  heron, 
the  largest  bird  in  Eastern  America. 

From  the  marshy  fields  swept  great  flocks  of  red- 
winged  blackbirds,  each  one  showing  a  yellow- 
bordered,  crimson  epaulet,  proof  positive  that  Mrs. 
Blackbird  was  still  in  the  South.  Mrs.  Robin  had 
come  back  the  week  before,  which  accounted  for  the 
joy-songs  which  sounded  from  every  tree-top.  Until 
she  comes,  the  robin's  song  is  faint  and  thin  and 
infrequent.  Beyond  the  creek  they  heard  the  "Quick, 
quick,  quick,"  of  the  flicker  calling  to  spring,  and 
before  long  they  came  to  the  tree  where  he  had 
hollowed  his  hole.  A  most  intelligent  flicker  he  was, 
too,  for  his  shaft  was  sunk  directly  under  a  sign  which 
read  "No  Shooting  Here." 

From  behind  them  as  they  marched,  tolled  the  low 
sweet  bell-notes  of  the  mourning  dove  —  "Ah  — 
coo,  coo,  coo."  The  Captain  tried  to  imitate  the 
sound,  and  the  harassed  bird  stood  it  as  long  as  he 
could,  but  finally  flew  away  with  whistling  wings. 
Then  the  Captain  told  the  Band  of  a  brave  mother- 


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MR.  FLICKER  AT  HOME 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  127 

dove  whose  nest  he  once  found  on  the  last  day  of 
March.  It  was  only  a  flat  platform  of  dry  sticks  in 
a  spruce  tree,  and  held  two  pearly- white  eggs.  The 
day  after  he  found  it,  there  came  a  sudden  snow- 
storm, and  when  he  saw  the  nest  again,  it  was 
covered  with  snow  —  but  there  was  the  mother-bird 
still  brooding  her  dear-loved  eggs,  with  her  head  just 
showing  above  the  drifted  whiteness. 

Beside  the  ruins  of  a  spring-house,  a  gray  bird  with 
a  tilting  tail  said,  "Phce,  bee-bee,  bee."  It  was  the 
little  phoebe,  so  glad  to  be  back  that  he  stuttered 
when  he  called  his  name.  Thereafter  the  Captain 
was  moved  to  relate  another  anecdote.  It  seemed 
a  friend  of  his  had  stopped  a  pair  of  robins  from 
nesting  over  a  hammock  hung  under  an  apple  tree, 
by  nailing  a  stuffed  cat  right  beside  their  bough. 
Whereupon  the  two  robins,  when  they  came  the  next 
morning,  fled  with  loud  chirps  of  dismay.  When  two 
phoebes  started  to  build  on  his  porch,  he  tried  the 
same  plan.  He  was  called  out  of  town  the  next  day, 
and  when  he  came  back  a  week  later  he  found  that 
the  phcebes  had  deserted  their  old  nest.  They  had 
however  built  a  new  one  —  on  top  of  the  cat's  head. 

As  the  Band  swung  back  into  the  far  end  of  Roberts 
Road,  the  Captain 's  eye  caught  the  gleam  of  a  half- 
healed  notch  which  he  had  cut  in  a  pin-oak  sapling 
the  year  before,  at  the  top  of  a  high  bank,  to  mark 
the  winter-quarters  of  a  colony  of  blacksnakes. 
He  halted  the  Band,  and  one  by  one  they  clambered 
up  the  slope,  stopping  puflfingly  at  the  first  ledge, 
and  searching  the  withered  grass  and  gray  rocks 


128  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

above  for  any  black,  sinister  shapes.  Suddenly 
Honey  did  a  remarkable  performance  in  the  standing- 
back-broad-jump,  finishing  by  rolling  clear  to  the 
foot  of  the  bank.  Right  where  he  had  stood  lay  a 
hale  and  hearty  specimen  of  a  blacksnake  nearly 
five  feet  long.  Evidently  it  had  only  just  awakened 
from  its  winter-sleep,  for  there  were  clay-smears  on 
the  smooth,  satiny  scales,  and  even  a  patch  of  clay 
between  the  golden,  unwinking  eyes.  Only  the 
flickering  of  a  long,  black,  forked  tongue  showed 
that  his  snakeship  was  alive.  Then  it  was  that  the 
Captain  lived  up  to  the  requirements  of  his  position 
by  picking  up  that  blacksnake  with  what  he  fondly 
believed  to  be  an  air  of  unconcern.  He  showed  the 
awe-stricken  Band  that  the  pupil  of  the  snake's  eye 
was  a  circle,  instead  of  the  oval  which  is  the  hall- 
mark of  that  fatal  family  of  pit-vipers  to  which  the 
rattlesnake,  copperhead,  and  moccasin  belong. 

' 'If  you  have  any  doubt  about  a  snake,"  lectured 
the  Captain,  "pick  it  up  and  look  it  firmly  in  the  eye. 
If  the  pupil  is  oval  —  drop  it.  Perhaps,  however," 
he  went  on  reflectively,  "it  would  be  better  to  get 
someone  else  to  do  the  picking-up  part. " 

When  the  Band  learned  from  the  Captain  that  it 
was  the  creditable  custom  of  the  Zoological  Gardens 
to  give  free  entry  to  such  as  bore  with  them  as  a  gift  a 
snake  of  size,  their  views  toward  the  captive  changed 
considerably.  Said  snake  was  now  legal  tender,  to 
be  cherished  accordingly.  It  was  the  resourceful 
First  Lieutenant  Trottie  who  solved  all  difficulties 
in  regard  to  transportation.    He  hurriedly  removed 


THE  TREASURE-HUNT  129 

a  stocking,  and  the  snake  was  inserted  therein, 
giving  the  stocking  that  knobbed,  lumpy  appearance 
usually  seen  in  such  articles  only  at  Christmas  time. 

From  the  Den  the  Band  marched  to  a  bowl- 
shaped  meadow  not  far  from  old  Tory  Bridge,  under 
which  a  Revolutionary  soldier  hid  with  his  horse 
while  his  pursuers  thundered  overhead,  well-nigh 
a  century  and  a  half  ago.  On  three  sides  of  the  field 
the  green  turf  sloped  down  to  a  long  level  stretch, 
covered  by  a  thin  growth  of  different  trees,  centring 
on  a  thicket  through  which  trickled  a  little  stream. 
Near  the  fence  on  a  white-oak  tree  some  ill-tempered 
owner  had  fastened  a  fierce  sign  which  read:  "Keep 
out.  Trespassers  will  be  shot  without  notice." 
The  cross  owner  had  been  gone  many  a  long  year, 
but  the  sign  still  stood,  and  it  always  gave  the  Band 
a  delightful  thrill  to  read  it. 

At  the  edge  of  the  grove  the  Captain  halted  them 
all. 

"Comrades,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "I  have  heard 
rumors  that  there  is  a  clue  to  the  treasure  hidden  in 
the  sign- tree. " 

It  was  enough.  With  one  accord  the  Band  sprang 
upon  that  defenceless  tree.  Some  searched  among 
its  gnarled  roots.  Others  examined  the  lower 
branches.  It  was  Henny-Penny,  however,  who 
boosted  by  Alice-Palace,  fumbled  back  of  the  threat- 
ening old  sign  and  drew  out  a  crumpled  slip  of  grimy 
paper.  On  it  had  been  laboriously  inscribed  in  some 
red  fluid,  presumably  blood,  a  skull  and  cross-bones. 
Underneath,  in  a  very  bad  hand,  was  written:  "By 


130  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  roots  of  the  nearest  black-walnut  tree.  Captain 
Kidd." 

There  was  a  moment's  check.  It  was  Honey  who 
recognized  the  tree  by  its  crooked  clutching  twigs, 
and  found  at  its  roots  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper 
which  said:  "Go  to  the  nearest  tulip  tree.  Black- 
beard  the  Pirate. "  It  was  Trottie  who  remembered 
that  a  tulip  tree  has  square  leaves,  and  it  was  he  who 
found  the  message  which  read:  "I  am  buried  under  a 
stone  which  stands  between  a  spice-bush  and  a 
white-ash  tree. "  They  all  knew  the  spice-bush,  with 
its  brittle  twigs  and  pungent  bark  which  was  made  to 
be  nibbled,  and  under  the  stone  they  found  a  note 
which  said:  "Look  in  the  crotch  of  a  dogwood  tree. 
If  you  will  listen  you  will  hear  its  bark";  which  made 
the  Band  laugh  like  anything. 

The  last  message  of  all  read:  "I  am  swinging  in  a 
vireo's  nest  on  the  branch  of  a  sour-gum  tree." 
That  was  a  puzzle  which  held  the  Band  hunting  like 
beagles  in  check  for  a  long  time.  Corporal  Alice- 
Palace  at  last  spied  the  bleached  little  basket-nest 
at  the  end  of  a  low  limb.  Inside  was  a  bit  of  paper 
which,  when  unfolded,  seemed  to  be  entirely  blank. 
So  were  the  face  of  the  Band  as  they  looked.  It  was 
the  Captain  again  who  saved  the  day. 

"I  have  heard,"  he  whispered,  "that  sometimes 
pirates  write  in  lemon- juice,  which  makes  an  invisible 
ink  that  needs  heat  to  bring  it  out.  Like  the  Gold- 
Bug,  you  know. " 

It  was  enough.  In  less  than  sixty  seconds,  sun 
time,  the  Band  had  built  a  tiny  fire  after  the  most 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  131 

approved  Indian  method,  and  as  soon  as  it  began  to 
crackle,  the  paper  was  held  as  close  to  the  blaze  as 
possible.  The  Captain  had  the  right  idea.  As  the 
paper  bent  under  the  heat,  on  its  white  surface 
brown  tracings  appeared,  which  slowly  formed  letters 
and  then  words,  until  they  could  all  read :  "I  am  in  the 
hidey-hole  of  the  chimney  of  the  Haunted  House. 
The  Treasure. " 

For  a  moment  the  Band  stared  at  each  other  in 
silence.  They  had  made  a  special  study  of  pirates, 
black,  white,  yellow,  and  mixed.  Haunted  houses, 
however,  were  beyond  their  bailiwick.  It  spoke 
well  for  the  iron  discipline  and  high  hearts  of  the 
company  that  not  one  of  them  faltered.  Led  by 
dauntless  Sergeant  Henny-Penny,  they  crossed  the 
creek  in  single  file  on  a  tippy  tree-trunk.  Half  hid- 
den in  the  bushes  above,  a  gaunt  stone  house  stared 
down  at  them  out  of  empty  window-sockets  like  a 
skull.  Through  the  thicket  and  straight  up  the 
slope  the  Band  charged,  with  such  speed  that  the 
Captain  was  hard  put  to  keep  up  with  his  gallant 
officers.  They  never  halted  until  they  stood  at  the 
threshold  of  the  House  itself.  Under  the  bowed 
lintel  the  Band  marched,  and  never  halted  until 
they  reached  the  vast  fireplace  which  took  in  a  whole 
side  of  the  room.  The  floorings  of  the  House  had 
gone,  and  nothing  but  the  naked  beams  remained, 
save  for  a  patch  of  warped  boards  far  up  against  the 
stone  chimney  where  the  attic  used  to  be.  It  was 
plainly  there  that  they  must  look  for  the  hidey-hole. 

The  Captain  showed  his  followers  how  in  one  of 


132  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

the  window-ledges  the  broken  ends  of  the  joists  made 
a  rude  ladder.  Up  this  the  Band  clambered  to  the 
first  tier  of  joists,  without  any  mishap  save  that  the 
Captain's  hat  fell  off  and  landed  in  front  of  the 
fireplace. 

As  they  all  roosted  like  chickens  on  the  beams, 
there  sounded  a  footstep  just  outside.  The  Band 
stood  stony  still  and  held  their  breath.  Through 
the  dim  doorway  came  the  furtive  figure  of  a  man. 
In  one  hand  he  carried  a  basket,  while  the  other  was 
clinched  on  a  butcher-knife  well  fitted  for  dark  and 
desperate  deeds.  Although  the  basket  seemed  to  be 
filled  with  dandelion  greens,  no  one  could  tell  what 
dreadful,  dripping  secret  might  be  concealed  under- 
neath. For  a  minute  the  stranger  looked  uneasily 
around  the  shadowy  room,  and  when  his  eye  caught 
sight  of  the  Captain's  hat,  he  started  back  and  peered 
into  every  corner,  while  the  Band  stood  taut  and 
tense  just  over  his  unsuspecting  head.  At  last, 
however,  evidently  convinced  that  the  hat  was  owner- 
less and  abandoned,  he  picked  it  up  and,  taking  off 
his  own  battered,  shapeless  head-covering,  started 
to  try  on  the  Captain's  cherished  felt.  Then  it  was 
that  the  latter  acted.  Bending  noiselessly  down 
until  his  head  was  hardly  a  foot  above  the  unwary 
wanderer's  ear,  he  shouted  in  a  deep,  fierce,  growly 
voice  which  the  Band  had  never  suspected  him  of 
having :  — 

"Drop  that  hat!    Run  for  your  life!" 
The  stranger  obeyed  both  of  these  commands  to 
the  letter.    Throwing  away  the  hat  as  if  it  were  red- 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  133 

hot,  he  dashed  out  of  the  doorway  and  sprinted  down 
the  slope,  scattering  dandelion  greens  at  every  jump, 
and  disappeared  in  the  thicket  beyond.  Although 
the  Captain  laughed  and  laughed  until  he  nearly  fell 
off  his  beam,  the  rest  of  the  Band  feared  the  worst. 

"He  looked  exactly  like  Black  Dog,"  murmured 
Honey  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  Trottie,  "kind  of  slinky  and 
tallowy. " 

Whereupon,  in  spite  of  the  Captain's  reassuring 
words,  they  made  haste  to  find  the  Treasure,  fearing 
lest  at  any  moment  they  might  hear  the  shrill  and 
dreadful  whistle  which  sounded  on  the  night  when 
Billy  Bones  died.  Sidling  along  the  beams  in  the  wake 
of  the  Captain,  they  came  to  what  remained  of  a 
crumbling  staircase.  One  by  one  they  passed  up  this 
until  they  reached  the  bit  of  attic  flooring  which 
they  had  seen  from  below.  Sure  enough,  in  one  of 
the  soft  mica-schist  rocks  of  the  chimney,  someone 
had  chiseled  a  deep  and  delightful  hidey-hole. 

It  was  Lieutenant  Trottie  who,  by  virtue  of  his 
rank,  first  explored  the  unknown  depths  and  drew 
therefrom  a  heavy,  grimy  canvas  bag.  When  he 
undid  the  draw-string,  a  rolling  mass  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver nuggets  rattled  down  on  the  dry  boards,  while 
the  Band  gasped  at  the  sight  of  so  much  sudden 
wealth.  A  moment  later  a  series  of  crunching  noises 
showed  that  the  treasure-hunters  had  discovered 
that  said  gold  and  silver  were  only  thin  surface  foils, 
each  concealing  a  luscious  heart  of  sweet  chocolate. 
The  Captain  met  their  inquiring  glances  unmoved. 


134  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

"It  only  shows,"  he  explained,  "what  thoughtful 
chaps  pirates  have  become.  They  knew  you  could  n  't 
use  a  bag  of  doubloons  nowadays,  but  that  sweet 
chocolate  always  comes  in  handy. " 

Hidden  treasure  is  not  a  thing  to  be  investigated 
scientifically,  nor  can  anything  restore  a  glamour 
once  gone.  Perhaps  so  unconsciously  reasoned  the 
Band  as  they  followed  the  Captain  down  the  steep 
stairs  and  the  steeper  ladder.  Through  the  lilac 
bushes  he  led  them  around  to  the  far  side  of  the 
House.  There  the  stairway  had  disappeared,  and 
most  of  the  sagging  floor-beams  were  broken.  A 
limb  of  a  nearby  apple  tree  had  thrust  its  way  above 
the  lilac  thicket,  until  it  nearly  touched  the  ledge  of 
a  window  half  hidden  by  the  boughs. 

Up  the  apple  tree  the  Captain  clambered,  followed 
by  the  Band,  and  walking  out  on  the  limb,  led  the 
way  across  the  window-ledge  into  a  tiny  room. 
For  some  unknown  reason,  amid  the  general  wreckage 
and  ruin  of  the  House,  this  room  still  stood  untouched 
and  with  its  flooring  unbroken.  Even  the  walls, 
plastered  a  deep  blue,  showed  scarcely  a  crack  on 
their  surface.  Best  of  all,  fronting  the  open  dormer 
of  the  window,  was  a  long,  deep  settee,  with  curly, 
carved  legs  and  a  bent,  comfortable  back.  Its  seat 
was  so  wide  that  the  Corporal 's  legs  stuck  out  straight 
in  front  of  her  when  she  sat  down  with  the  rest  of 
the  Band  at  the  end  of  the  line. 

Framed  in  the  broken  sheathing  and  bleached 
stone  of  the  window-opening,  there  stretched  out 
before   them    a   vista   of   little   valleys   and    round 


THE   TREASURE-HUNT  135 

wooded  hills,  all  feathery  green  with  the  new  leaves 
of  early  spring.  The  Band  felt  that  they  occupied  a 
strong  and  strategic  position.  A  drop  of  some 
twenty  feet  sheer  from  the  broken  flooring  behind 
them  to  the  ground  protected  them  against  any 
rear  attack,  and  the  only  entrance  to  their  refuge 
was  so  shadowed  and  hidden  by  rose-red  and  snow- 
white  apple-blossoms  that  it  would  be  a  cunning  and 
desperate  foe  indeed  who  could  find  or  would  storm 
their  fastness. 

With  safety  once  secured,  it  was  the  unanimous 
feeling  of  the  whole  company  that  luncheon  was  the 
next  and  most  pressing  engagement  for  their  consid- 
eration. An  investigation  of  the  commissary  showed 
that  the  Quartermaster-General  had  merited  promo- 
tion and  decoration  and  citation  and  various  other 
military  honors,  by  reason  of  the  unsurpassable 
quality  of  the  rations  for  which  she  was  responsible. 
When  these  were  topped  off  by  the  Treasure  for  des- 
sert, it  was  felt  by  the  whole  Band  that  this  was  a 
Day  which  thereafter  would  rank  in  their  memories 
with  Fourth  of  July  and  Thanksgiving,  and  press 
hard  upon  the  heels  even  of  Christmas  Day  itself. 

After  a  rapturous  half-hour  undisturbed  by  any 
desultory  and  unnecessary  conversation,  followed  a 
chapter  in  the  Adventures  of  Great-great  Uncle 
Jake.  Said  relative  had  been  a  distant  collateral 
connection  of  the  Captain,  and  had  fought  through 
the  Revolution,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Band, 
next  to  General  Washington,  had  probably  been 
most  nearly  responsible  for  the  final  success  of  the 


136  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

patriot  arms.  It  was  Uncle  Jake  who  made  General 
Putnam  get  off  his  horse  into  the  mud  and  give  the 
countersign.  It  was  Uncle  Jake  who  shot  the  Hes- 
sian who  used  to  stand  on  an  earthwork  and  make 
insulting  gestures  every  morning  toward  the  Con- 
tinental camp.  It  was  Uncle  Jake  again  who,  when  he 
was  captured,  broke  his  way  out  of  the  Hulks,  and 
swam  ashore  one  stormy  night.  To-day  the  Captain 
had  bethought  himself  of  a  rather  unusual  experi- 
ence which  Uncle  Jake  once  had  while  hunting  bears. 

"It  was  during  a  February  thaw,"  he  began. 
"Uncle  Jake  was  coming  down  Pond  Hill,  when  he 
stepped  into  a  mushy  place  back  of  a  patch  of 
bushes,  and  sank  in  up  to  his  waist.  He  felt  some- 
thing soft  under  his  feet  and  stamped  down  hard. 
A  second  later,"  continued  the  Captain  impressively, 
"he  wished  he  hadn't.  Something  rose  right  up 
underneath  him,  and  the  next  thing  poor  old  Uncle 
Jake  knew,  he  was  astride  a  big  black  bear,  going 
down  hill  like  mad  —  riding  bear-back  as  it  were. 
You  see,"  went  on  the  Captain  hurriedly,  "Uncle 
Jake  had  stepped  into  a  bear-hole  and  waked  up  a 
bear  by  stamping  on  his  back.  He  was  in  a  bad  fix. 
He  did  n't  want  to  stay  on  and  he  did  n't  dare  to 
get  off.   So  what  do  you  suppose  he  did?  " 

"Rode  him  up  a  tree,"  hazarded  Henny -Penny. 

"No,"  said  the  Captain.  "He  stuck  on  until 
they  got  to  level  ground.  Then  Uncle  Jake  drew  his 
hunting-knife  and  stabbed  the  old  bear  dead  right 
through  his  neck,  and  afterwards  made  an  overcoat 
out  of  its  skin." 


THE  TREASURE-HUNT  137 

The  Band  felt  that  they  could  bear  nothing  further 
in  the  story  line  after  this  anecdote,  and  the  Treasure 
having  gone  the  way  of  all  treasures,  the  march 
back  was  begun.  It  was  the  Captain  who,  on  this 
homeward  trip,  discovered  another  treasure.  They 
were  passing  a  marshy  swale  of  land,  where  a  little 
stream  trickled  through  a  tangle  of  trees.  From  out 
of  the  thicket  came  an  unknown  bird-call.  "Pip, 
pip,  pip,"  it  sounded.  As  they  peered  among  the 
bushes,  on  a  low  branch  the  Captain  saw  six  strange 
birds,  all  gold  and  white  and  black,  with  thick,  white 
bills.  Never  had  the  Band  seen  him  so  excited  before. 
He  told  them  that  the  strangers  were  none  other 
than  a  company  of  the  rare  evening  grosbeaks, 
which  had  come  down  from  the  far  Northwest, 
which  had  never  before  been  reported  in  that 
county,  and  which  few  bird-students  ever  meet  in 
a  whole  lifetime,  although  he  had  found  a  flock  in 
New  Jersey  a  few  months  before.  For  long  the  Band 
stood  and  watched  them.  They  flew  down  on  the 
ground  and  began  feeding  on  cherry-pits,  cracking 
the  stones  in  their  great  bills.  At  times  they  would 
fly  up  into  a  tree  and  sidle  along  the  limbs  like  little 
parrots.  The  females  had  mottled  black-and-white 
wings  and  gray  backs  and  breasts,  while  the  males 
had  golden  breasts  and  backs,  with  wings  half  velvet- 
black  and  half  ivory-white. 

For  a  long  time  they  all  watched  the  birds  and 
made  notes,  until  the  dimming  light  warned  them 
that  it  was  time  to  be  on  their  way.  In  the  twilight 
the  hylas  called  across  the  marshes,  and  from  upland 


138  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

meadows  scores  of  meadow-larks  cried,  "Swee-eet, 
swee-eet."  Westering  down  the  sky  sank  the  cres- 
cent new  moon,  with  blazing  Jupiter  in  her  train. 
As  the  Band  climbed  Violet  Hill  and  swung  into  the 
long  lane  which  ended  in  home,  they  heard  the  last 
and  loveliest  bird-song  of  that  whole  dear  day. 
Through  the  gathering  darkness  came  a  sweet  and 
dreamy  croon,  the  love-song  of  the  little  owl.  Even 
as  they  listened,  the  distant  door  of  the  house  opened 
and,  framed  in  the  lamp-light,  waiting  for  them,  was 
Mother,  the  best  treasure  of  all. 


IX 
ORCHID-HUNTING 

My  path  led  down  the  side  of  the  lonely  Barrack, 
as  the  coffin-shaped  hill  had  been  named.  There 
I  had  been  exploring  a  little  mountain  stream,  which 
I  had  fondly  and  mistakenly  hoped  might  prove  to 
be  a  trout-brook.  The  winding  wood-road  passed 
through  dim  aisles  of  whispering  pine  trees.  At  a 
steep  place,  a  bent  green  stem  stretched  half  across 
the  path,  and  from  it  swayed  a  rose-red  flower 
like  a  hollow  sea-shell  carved  out  of  jacinth.  For 
the  first  time  I  looked  down  on  the  moccasin  flower 
or  pink  lady-slipper  (Cypripedium  acaule),  the  lar- 
gest of  our  native  orchids. 

For  a  long  time  I  hung  over  the  flower.  Its  dis- 
covery was  a  great  moment,  one  of  those  that  stand 
out  among  the  thirty-six-odd  million  of  minutes  that 
go  to  make  up  a  long  life.  For  the  first  time  my  eyes 
were  opened  to  see  what  a  lovely  thing  a  flower  could 
be.  In  the  half-light  I  knelt  on  the  soft  pine-needles 
and  studied  long  the  hollow  purple-pink  shell, 
veined  with  crimson,  set  between  two  other  tapering 
petals  of  greenish-purple,  while  a  sepal  of  the  same 
color  curved  overhead.  The  whole  flower  swayed 
between  two  large  curved,  grooved  leaves. 

Leaving  the  path,  I  began  to  hunt  for  others  under 
the  great   trees,   and   at  last  came  upon   a  whole 


140  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

congregation  nodding  and  swaying  in  long  rows 
around  the  vast  trunks  of  white  pines  which  were 
old  trees  when  this  country  was  born. 

From  that  day  I  became  a  hunter  of  orchids  and  a 
haunter  of  far-away  forests  and  lonely  marshlands 
and  unvisited  hill-tops  and  mountain-sides.  Wher- 
ever the  lovely  hid-folk  dwell,  there  go  I.  They  are 
strange  flowers,  these  orchids.  When  first  they  were 
made  out  of  sunshine,  mist,  and  dew,  every  color 
was  granted  them  save  one.  They  may  wear  snow- 
white,  rose-red,  pearl  and  gold,  green  and  white, 
purple  and  gold,  ivory  and  rose,  yellow,  gold  and 
brown,  every  shade  of  crimson  and  pink.  Only  the 
blues  are  denied  them. 

Since  that  first  great  day  I  have  found  the  moccasin 
flower  in  many  places  —  on  the  top  of  bare  hills  and 
in.  the  black-lands  of  northern  Canada,  where,  four 
feet  under  the  peat,  the  ice  never  melts  even  in  mid- 
summer. Once  I  saw  it  by  a  sphagnum  bog  where  I 
was  hunting  for  the  almost  unknown  nest  of  the  Ten- 
nessee warbler,  amid  clouds  of  black  flies  and  mos- 
quitoes that  stung  like  fire.  Again,  on  the  tip-top  of 
Mount  Pocono  in  Pennsylvania,  I  had  just  found  the 
long-sought  nest  of  a  chestnut-sided  warbler.  Even 
as  I  admired  the  male  bird,  with  his  white  cheeks 
and  golden  head  and  chestnut-streaked  sides,  and 
the  four  eggs  like  flecked  pink  pearls,  my  eye  caught 
a  sight  which  brought  me  to  my  knees  regardless  for 
a  moment  of  nest,  eggs,  birds,  and  all.  Among  rose- 
hearted  twin-flowers  and  wild  lilies  of  the  valley  and 
snowy  dwarf  cornels  swung  three  moccasin  flowers 


ORCHID-HUNTING  141 

in  a  line.  The  outer  ones,  like  the  guard-stars  of  great 
Altair,  were  light  in  color.  Between  them  gleamed, 
like  the  Eagle  Star  itself,  a  flower  of  deepest  rose,  an 
unearthly  crystalline  color,  like  a  rain-drenched 
jacinth. 

Another  time,  at  the  crest  of  a  rattlesnake  den,  I 
found  two  of  these  pink  pearls  of  the  woods  swinging 
above  the  velvet-black  coils  of  a  black  timber  rattle- 
snake. I  picked  my  way  down  the  mountain-side, 
with  Beauty  in  one  hand  and  Death  in  the  other,  as 
I  romantically  remarked  to  the  unimpressed  snake- 
collector  who  was  waiting  for  me  with  an  open 
gunny-sack. 

Then  there  was  the  day  in  the  depths  of  the 
pine-barrens,  where  stunted,  three-leaved  pitch  pines 
took  the  place  of  the  towering,  five-leaved  white  pine 
of  the  North.  The  woods  looked  like  a  shimmering 
pool  of  changing  greens  lapping  over  a  white  sand- 
land  that  had  been  thrust  up  from  the  South  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  North.  I  followed  a  winding  wood- 
path  along  the  high  bank  of  a  stream  stained  brown 
and  steeped  sweet  with  a  million  cedar-roots.  A 
mountain  laurel  showed  like  a  beautiful  ghost  against 
the  dark  water  —  a  glory  of  white,  pink-flecked 
flowers. 

Through  dripping  branches  of  withewood  and  star- 
leaved  sweet-gum  saplings  the  path  twisted.  Sud- 
denly, at  the  very  edge  of  the  bank,  out  of  a  mass 
of  hollow,  crimson-streaked  leaves  filled  with  clear 
water,  swung  two  glorious  blossoms.  Wine-red,  aqua- 
marine, pearl-white,  and  pale  gold  they  gleamed  and 


142  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

nodded  from  slender  stems.    It  was  the  pitcher-plant, 
which  I  had  never  seen  in  blossom  before. 

From  the  stream  the  hidden  path  wound  through 
thicket  after  thicket,  sweet  as  spring,  with  the  fra- 
grance of  the  wild  magnolia  and  the  spicery  of  the 
gray-green  bayberry.  Its  course  was  marked  with 
white  sand,  part  of  the  bed  of  some  sea  forgotten  a 
hundred  thousand  years  ago.  By  the  side  of  the  path 
showed  the  vivid  crimson-lake  leaves  of  the  wild 
ipecac,  with  its  strange  green  flowers;  while  every- 
where, as  if  set  in  snow,  gleamed  the  green-and-gold 
of  the  Hudsonia,  the  barrens-heather.  The  plants 
looked  like  tiny  cedar  trees  laden  down  with  thickly 
set  blossoms  of  pure  gold,  which  the  wind  spilled  in 
little  yellow  drifts  on  the  white  sand.  In  the  dis- 
tance, through  the  trees,  were  glimpses  of  meadows, 
hazy -purple  with  the  blue  toad-flax.  Beside  the  path 
showed  here  and  there  the  pale  gold  of  the  narrow- 
leaved  sundrops,  with  deep-orange  stamens.  Beyond 
were  masses  of  lambskill,  with  its  fatal  leaves  and 
crimson  blossoms. 

On  and  on  the  path  led,  past  jade-green  pools  in 
which  gleamed  buds  of  the  yellow  pond-lily,  like 
lumps  of  floating  gold.  Among  them  were  blossoms 
of  the  paler  golden-club,  which  looked  like  the  tongue 
of  a  calla  lily.  At  last  the  path  stretched  straight 
toward  the  flat-topped  mound  that  showed  dim  and 
fair  through  the  low  trees.  The  woods  became  still. 
Even  the  Maryland  yellow-throat  stopped  singing, 
the  prairie  warbler  no  longer  drawled  his  lazy  notes, 
and  the  chewink,  black  and  white  and  red  all  over, 


ORCHID-HUNTING  143 

like  the  newspaper  in  the  old  conundrum,  stopped 
calling  his  name  from  the  thickets  and  singing,  "Drink 
your  tea ! ' ' 

I  knew  that  at  last  I  had  come  upon  a  fairy  hill, 
such  an  one  wherein  the  shepherd  heard  a  host  of 
tiny  voices  singing  a  melody  so  haunting  sweet  that 
he  always  after  remembered  it,  and  which  has  since 
come  down  to  us  of  to-day  as  the  tune  of  Robin 
Adair.  Listen  as  I  would,  however,  there  was  no 
sound  from  the  depths  of  this  hill.  Perhaps  the  sun 
was  too  high,  for  the  fairy-folk  sing  best  in  late 
twilight  or  early  dawn. 

The  mound,  like  all  fairy  hills,  was  guarded.  The 
path  ran  into  a  tangle  of  sand-myrtle,  with  vivid  little 
oval  green  leaves  and  feathery  white,  pink-centred 
blossoms.  Just  beyond  stood  a  bush  of  poison-sumac. 
Pushing  aside  the  fierce  branches,  I  went  unscathed 
up  the  mound.  At  its  very  edge  was  another  sentry. 
From  under  my  feet  sounded  a  deep,  fierce  hiss,  and 
there  across  the  path  stretched  the  great  body  of  a 
pine  snake  fully  six  feet  long,  all  cream-white  and 
umber-brown.  Raising  its  strange  pointed  head, 
with  its  gold  and  black  eyes,  it  hissed  fearsomely. 
I  had  learned,  however,  that  a  pine  snake's  hiss  is 
worse  than  its  bite  and,  when  I  poked  its  rough, 
mottled  body  with  my  foot,  it  gave  up  pretending  to 
be  a  dangerous  snake  and  lazily  moved  off  to  some 
spot  where  it  would  not  be  disturbed  by  intruding 
humans. 

The  pyxies  had  carpeted  the  side  of  the  mound 
thick  with  their  wine-red  and  green  moss,  starred  with 


144  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

hundreds  of  flat,  five-petaled  white  blossoms.  This 
celebrated  pyxie  moss  is  not  a  moss  at  all,  but  a  tiny 
shrub.  Near  the  summit  of  the  mound  the  path 
was  lost  in  a  foam  of  the  blue,  lilac,  and  white  butter- 
fly blossoms  of  the  lupine.  Little  clouds  of  fragrance 
drifted  through  the  air,  as  the  wind  swayed  rows  and 
rows  of  the  transparent  bells  of  the  leucothoe. 
Beyond  the  lupine  stood  a  rank  of  dazzling  white 
turkey-beards,  the  xerophyllum  of  the  botanists. 
The  inmost  circle  of  the  mound  was  carpeted  with 
dry  gray  reindeer  moss,  and  before  me,  in  the  centre 
of  the  circle,  drooped  on  slender  stems  seven  rose-red 
moccasin  flowers. 

They  have  sought  him  high,  they  have  sought  him  low, 
They  have  sought  him  over  down  and  lea; 

They  have  found  him  by  the  milk-white  thorn 
That  guards  the  gates  o'  Faerie. 

'T  was  bent  beneath  and  blue  above, 

Their  eyes  were  held  that  they  might  not  see 

The  kine  that  grazed  beneath  the  knowes; 
Oh,  they  were  the  Queens  o'  Faerie. 

If  only  that  day  my  eyes  had  been  loosed  like  those  of 
True  Thomas,  I  too  might  have  seen  the  fairy  queens 
in  all  their  regal  beauty. 

Wherever  it  be  found,  the  moccasin  flower  will 
always  hold  me  by  its  sheer  beauty.  Yet  to  my  mem- 
ory none  of  them  can  approach  the  loveliness  of  that 
cloistered  colony  which  I  first  found  in  the  pine  wood 
so  many  years  ago.    Year  after  year  I  would  visit 


ORCHID-HUNTING  145 

them.  Then  came  a  time  when  for  five  years  I  was 
not  able  to  travel  to  their  home.  When,  at  last,  I 
made  my  pilgrimage  to  where  they  grew,  there  was 
no  cathedral  of  mighty  green  arches  roofed  by  a 
shimmering  June  sky;  there  were  no  aisles  of  softly 
singing  trees;  and  there  were  no  rows  of  sweet  faces 
looking  up  at  me  and  waiting  for  my  coming;  only 
heaps  of  sawdust  and  hideous  masses  of  lopped 
branches  showed  where  a  steam  sawmill  had  cut  its 
deadly  way.  Underneath  the  fallen  dying  boughs 
which  had  once  waved  above  the  world,  companioned 
only  by  sky  and  sun  and  the  winds  of  heaven,  I  found 
one  last  starveling  blossom  left  of  all  her  lovely 
company.  Protected  no  longer  by  the  sheltering 
boughs,  she  was  bleached  nearly  white  by  the  sun, 
and  her  stem  crept  crookedly  along  the  ground 
underneath  the  mass  of  brush  and  litter  which  had 
once  been  a  carpet  of  gold.  Never  since  that  day 
have  I  visited  the  place  where  my  friends  wait  for 
me  no  more. 

It  was  another  orchid  which,  for  eleven  years,  on 
the  last  day  of  every  June,  made  me  travel  two 
hundred  miles  due  north.  From  an  old  farmhouse  on 
the  edge  of  the  Berkshires  I  would  start  out  in  the 
dawn-dusk  on  the  first  day  of  every  July.  The 
night-hawks  would  still  be  twanging  above  me  as  I 
followed,  before  sunrise,  a  dim  silent  road  over  the 
hills  all  sweet  with  the  scent  of  wild-grape  and  the 
drugged  perfume  of  chestnut  tassels.  At  last  I 
would  reach  a  barway  sunken  in  masses  of  sweet- 
fern  and  shaded  by  thickets  of  alder  and  witch-hazel. 


146  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

There  a  long-forgotten  wood-road  led  to  my  Land  of 
Heart's  Desire.  Parting  the  branches,  I  would  step 
into  the  hush  of  the  sleeping  wood,  pushing  my  way 
through  masses  of  glossy,  dark-green  Christmas 
ferns  and  clumps  of  feathery,  tossing  maidenhair. 
Black-throated  blue  warblers  sang  above,  and  that 
ventriloquist,  the  oven  bird,  would  call  from  appar- 
ently a  long  way  off,  'Teacher,  teacher,  teacher," 
ending  with  a  tremendous  "TEACH!"  right  under 

my  feet. 

At  last  there  would  loom  up  through  the  green 
tangle  a  squat  broken  white  pine.  That  was  my 
landmark.  I  would  push  my  way  through  a  tangle  of 
sanicle,  and  beyond  the  trunk  of  a  slim  elm  catch  a 
gleam  of  white  in  the  dusk.  There,  all  rose-red  and 
snow-white,  with  parted  lips,  waited  for  me  the 
queen  flower  of  the  woods,  the  Cypripedium  regime, 
the  loveliest  of  all  our  orchids.  Two  narrow,  white, 
beautiful  curved  petals  stretched  out  at  right  angles, 
while  above  them  towered  a  white  sepal,  the  three 
together  making  a  snowy  cross.  Below  this  cross 
hung  the  lip  of  the  flower,  a  milk-white  hollow  shell 
fully  an  inch  across  and  an  inch  deep,  veined  with 
crystalline  pink  which  deepened  into  purple,  growing 
more  intense  in  color  until  the  veins  massed  in  a  net- 
work of  vivid  violet  just  under  the  curved  lips 
kissed  by  many  a  wandering  wood-bee.  Inside  the 
shell  were  spots  of  intense  purple,  showing  through 
the  transparent  walls.  The  other  two  white  sepals 
were  joined  together  and  hung  as  a  single  one  behind 
the  lip. 


ORCHID-HUNTING  147 

I  had  first  found  this  orchid  while  hunting  for  a 
veery  's  nest  in  the  marsh.  At  that  time  nothing  was 
showing  except  the  leaves,  which  grow  on  tall, 
round,  downy  stems.  They  were  beautifully  curved 
at  the  margin,  and  were  of  a  brilliant  green,  a  little 
lighter  on  the  under  side  than  on  the  upper,  and, 
at  first  sight,  much  like  the  leaves  of  the  well-known 
marsh  hellebore.  That  day  was  the  beginning  of  a 
ten-year  tryst  which  I  kept  every  summer  with 
this  wood-queen.    Then,  alas,  I  lost  her! 

It  came  about  thus.  The  marsh  in  which  she  hid 
was  part  of  a  thousand  acres  owned  by  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  was  an  enthusiastic  and  rival  flower-hunter. 
Each  year,  when  I  visited  my  colony  of  these  queen 
orchids,  I  sent  him  one  with  my  compliments  and  the 
assurance  that  the  flower  belonged  to  him  because 
it  was  found  on  his  land.  I  accompanied  these  gifts 
with  various  misleading  messages  as  to  where  they 
grew.  He  would  hunt  and  hunt,  but  find  nothing 
but  exasperation.  Finally,  he  bribed  me,  with  an 
apple-wood  corner  cupboard  I  had  long  coveted,  to 
show  him  the  place.  It  was  not  fifty  yards  from  the 
road,  and  when  I  took  him  to  it  he  was  overcome  with 
emotion. 

"I'll  bet  that  I  have  tramped  a  hundred  miles," 
he  said  plaintively,  '  'through  every  spot  on  this  farm 
except  this  one,  looking  for  this  flower.  Nobody  who 
knew  anything  about  botany  would  ever  think  of 
looking  here. " 

The  next  year  my  wood-lady  did  not  meet  me, 
nor  the  next,  and  I  strongly  suspect  that  she  has 


148  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

been  transplanted  to  some  secret  spot  known  to  my 
unscrupulous  botanical  friend  alone.  Moreover,  he 
has  never  yet  paid  me  that  corner  cupboard. 

I  never  saw  the  flower  again  until  last  summer  I 
visited  a  marsh  in  northern  New  Jersey,  where  I  had 
been  told  by  another  orchid-hunter  that  it  grew. 
This  marsh  I  was  warned  was  a  dangerous  one. 
Cattle  and  men,  too,  in  times  past  have  perished  in 
its  depths.  For  eight  unexplored  miles  it  stretched 
away  in  front  of  me.  After  many  wanderings  I  at 
length  found  my  way  to  Big  Spring,  a  murky,  malev- 
olent pool  set  in  dark  woods,  with  the  marsh  stretch- 
ing away  beyond. 

Not  far  away,  in  a  limestone  cliff,  I  came  upon  a 
deep  burrow,  in  front  of  which  was  a  sinister  pile  of 
picked  bones  of  all  sizes  and  shapes.  The  sight 
suggested  delightful  possibilities.  Panthers,  wolves, 
ogres  —  anything  might  belong  to  such  a  pile  of  bones 
as  that.  I  knew,  however,  that  the  last  New  Jersey 
wolf  was  killed  a  century  or  so  ago.  The  burrow  was 
undoubtedly  too  small  for  a  panther,  or  even  an 
undersized  ogre.  Accordingly  I  was  compelled 
reluctantly  to  assign  the  den  to  the  more  common- 
place bay-lynx,  better  known  as  the  wild-cat. 

On  these  limestone  rocks  I  found  the  curious  walk- 
ing-fern, which  loves  limestone  and  no  other.  Both 
of  the  cliff  brakes  were  there,  too  —  the  slender, 
with  its  dark,  fragile,  appealing  beauty,  and  its  hard- 
ier sister,  the  winter-brake,  whose  leathery  fronds 
are  of  a  strange  blue-green,  a  color  not  found  in  any 
other  plant.    Then  there  was  the  rattlesnake  fern, 


ORCHID-HUNTING  149 

a  lover  of  deep  and  dank  woods,  with  its  golden- 
yellow  seed-cluster,  or  'rattle,'  growing  from  the 
centre  of  its  fringed  leaves.  The  oddest  of  all  the 
ferns  was  the  maidenhair  spleen-wort,  whose  tiny 
leaves  are  of  the  shape  of  those  of  the  well-known 
maidenhair  fern.  When  they  are  exposed  to  bright 
sunlight,  all  the  fertile  leaves  which  have  seeds  on 
their  surface  suddenly  begin  to  move,  and  for  three 
or  four  minutes  vibrate  back  and  forth  as  rapidly  as 
the  second-hand  of  a  watch. 

Farther  and  farther  I  pushed  on  into  the  treacher- 
ous marsh,  picking  my  way  from  tussock  to  tussock. 
Now  and  then  my  foot  would  slip  into  black,  quiver- 
ing mire,  thinly  veiled  by  marsh-grasses.  When 
this  happened,  the  whole  swamp  would  shake  and 
chuckle  and  lap  at  the  skull-shaped  tussocks  and  the 
bleached  skeletons  of  drowned  trees  which  showed 
here  and  there.  At  last,  when  I  had  almost  given 
up  hope,  I  came  upon  a  clump  of  the  regal  flowers 
growing,  not  in  the  swamp  itself,  but  on  a  shaded 
bank  sloping  down  from  the  encircling  woods. 
Three  of  the  plants  had  two  flowers  each,  the  rest 
only  one.  Among  these  was  a  single  blossom,  pure 
white  without  a  trace  of  pink  or  purple.  Although 
it  was  only  the  thirtieth  of  June,  several  of  the 
flowers  were  already  slightly  withered  and  past 
their  prime,  showing  that  this  orchid  is  at  its  best  in 
New  Jersey  in  the  middle  of  June,  rather  than 
the  end  of  the  month,  as  in  Connecticut.  The  perfect 
flowers  were  beautiful  orchids,  and  had  a  rich  frag- 
rance which  I  had  never  noticed  in  my  Connecticut 


150  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

specimens.   Yet,  in  some  way,  to  me  they  lacked  the 
charm  and  loveliness  of  my  lost  flowers  of  the  North. 

It  was  a  cold  May  day.  The  Ornithologist  and 
myself  were  climbing  Kent  Mountain,  along  with 
Jim  Pan,  the  last  of  the  Pequots.  Whenever  Jim 
drank  too  much  hard  cider,  which  was  as  often  as 
he  could  get  it,  he  would  give  terrible  war-whoops 
and  tell  how  many  palefaces  his  ancestors  had 
scalped.  He  would  usually  end  by  threatening  to  do 
some  free-hand  scalping  on  his  own  account  —  but 
he  never  did.  He  had  a  son  named  Tin  Pan,  who 
never  talked  unless  he  had  something  to  say,  which 
was  not  more  than  once  or  twice  during  the  year. 

The  two  lived  all  alone,  in  a  little  cabin  on  the 
slope  of  Kent  Mountain.  On  the  outside  of  Jim's 
door  some  wag  once  painted  a  skull  and  crossbones, 
one  night  when  Jim  was  away  on  a  hunt  for  some  of 
the  aforesaid  hard  cider.  When  the  Last  of  the 
Pequots  came  back  and  saw  what  had  been  done,  he 
swore  mightily  that  he  would  leave  said  insignia 
there  until  he  could  wash  them  out  with  the  heart's 
blood  of  the  gifted  artist.  They  still  show  faintly 
on  the  door,  although  Jim  has  slept  for  many  a  year 
in  the  little  Indian  cemetery  on  the  mountain,  beside 
his  great-aunt  Eunice  who  lived  to  be  one  hundred 
and  four  years  old.  Lest  it  may  appear  that  Jim 
was  an  unduly  fearsome  Indian,  let  me  hasten  to 
add  that  there  was  never  a  kinder,  happier,  or  more 
untruthful  Pequot  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
that  long-lost  tribe. 


ORCHID-HUNTING  151 

On  that  day  the  Ornithologist  and  myself  were  on 
our  way  to  a  rattlesnake  den,  the  secret  of  which 
had  been  in  the  Pan  family  for  some  generations. 
In  past  years  Jim's  forbears  had  done  a  thriving 
business  in  selling  skins  and  rattlesnake  oil,  in  the 
days  when  the  rattlesnake  shared  with  the  skunk 
the  honor  of  providing  an  unwilling  cure  for  rheuma- 
tism. Our  path  led  up  through  masses  of  color. 
There  was  the  pale  pure  pink  of  the  crane's-bill  or 
wild  geranium,  the  yellow  adder's  tongue,  and  the 
faint  blue-and-white  porcelain  petals  of  the  hepatica, 
with  cluster  after  cluster  of  the  snowy,  golden- 
hearted  bloodroot  whose  frail  blossoms  last  but 
for  a  day. 

That  very  morning  a  long-delayed  warbler-wave 
was  breaking  over  the  mountain,  and  the  Ornitholo- 
gist could  hardly  contain  himself  as  he  watched  the 
different  varieties  pass  by.  I  recall  that  we  scored 
over  twenty  different  kinds  of  warblers  between 
dawn  and  dark,  and  I  saw  for  the  first. time  the 
Wilson's  black-cap,  with  its  bright  yellow  breast 
and  tiny  black  crown,  and  the  rare  Cape  May  warbler, 
with  its  black-streaked  yellow  underparts  and  orange- 
red  cheeks.  The  richly  dressed  and  sombre  black- 
throated  blue  and  bay-breasted  were  among  the 
crowd,  while  black-throated  greens,  myrtles,  magno- 
lias, chestnut-sided,  blackpolls,  Canadians,  redstarts, 
with  their  fan-shaped  tails,  and  Blackburnians,  with 
their  flaming  throats  and  breasts  glowing  like  live 
coals,  went  by  in  a  never-ending  procession. 

All  the  way  Jim  kept  up  a  steady  flow  of  anecdote. 


152  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

I  can  remember  only  one,  a  blood-curdling  story 
about  a  man  from  Bridgeport,  name  not  given,  who 
caught  a  rattlesnake  while  on  a  hunt  with  Jim,  but 
who  let  go  while  attempting  to  put  it  into  the  bag, 
whereupon  the  rattlesnake  bit  him  as  it  dropped. 

"Did  he  die?"  queried  the  writer  and  the  Orni- 
thologist in  chorus. 

"No, "  said  Jim  proudly;  "Tin  and  I  saved  his  life. " 

"Whiskey?"  ventured  the  writer. 

"Not  for  snake-bites, "  responded  Jim  simply. 

"Well,  how  was  it?"  persisted  the  Ornithologist, 
hoping  to  learn  of  some  mysterious  Indian  remedy. 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  stretching  out  his  tremendous 
arms  like  a  great  bear,  "I  held  him  tight  and  Tin 
here  burned  the  place  out.  It  took  two  matches  and 
he  yelled  somethin'  terrible.  I  told  him  we  were 
savin'  his  life,  but  the  fool  said  he  would  rather  die 
of  snake-bite  than  be  burned  to  death.  You  wouldn  't 
suppose  a  grown  man  would  make  such  a  fuss  over 
two  little  matches. " 

Finally,  we  reached  the  Den,  a  ledge  of  rocks  near 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  for  some  unknown 
reason  all  the  rattlesnakes  for  miles  around  were 
accustomed  to  hibernate  during  the  winter  and  to 
remain  for  some  weeks  in  the  late  spring  before 
scattering  through  the  valley.  The  Ornithologist  and 
I  fell  unobtrusively  to  the  rear,  while  the  dauntless 
Pan  led  the  van  with  a  crotched  stick.  Suddenly 
Jim  thrust  one  foot  up  into  the  air  like  a  toe-dancer, 
and  pirouetted  with  amazing  rapidity  on  the  other. 
He  had  been  in  the  very  act  of  stepping  over  a  small 


ORCHID-HUNTING  153 

huckleberry-bush,  when  he  noted  under  its  lee  a 
rattlesnake  in  coil,  about  the  size  of  a  peck  measure 
—  as  pretty  a  death-trap  as  was  ever  set  in  the 
woods.  By  the  time  I  got  there,  Jim  had  pinned  the 
hissing  heart-shaped  head  down  with  his  forked 
stick,  while  the  bloated,  five-foot  body  was  thrash- 
ing through  the  air  in  circles,  the  rattles  whirring 
incessantly. 

"Grab  him  just  back  of  the  stick,"  panted  Jim, 
bearing  down  with  all  his  weight,  "and  put  him  in 
the  bag." 

I  paused. 

"You're  not  scared,  are  you?"  he  inquired;  while 
Tin,  who  had  hurried  up  with  a  gunny-sack,  regarded 
me  reproachfully. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  assured  him  indignantly,  "but 
I  don't  want  to  be  selfish.   Let  Tin  do  it. " 

"No,"  said  Jim  firmly,  "you 're  company.  Tin  can 
pick  up  rattlesnakes  any  day." 

"Well,  how  about  my  friend?"  I  rejoined  weakly. 

The  Ornithologist,  who  had  been  watching  the 
scene  from  the  far  background,  spoke  up  for  him- 
self. 

"I  would  n 't  touch  that  damn  snake, "  he  said  earn- 
estly, "for  eleven  million  dollars." 

At  this  profanity  the  rattlesnake  started  another 
paroxysm  of  struggling,  while  his  rattle  sounded 
like  an  alarm-clock.  When  he  stopped  to  rest,  the 
Ornithologist  raised  his  price  to  an  even  billion — 
in  gold.  It  was  evident  that  I  was  the  white  man's 
hope.    It  would  never  do  to  let  two  members  of  a 


154  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

conquered  race  see  a  pale-face  falter.  Remembering 
Deerslayer  at  the  stake,  Daniel  Boone,  and  sundry 
other  brave  white  men  without  a  cross,  I  set  my 
teeth,  gripped  the  rough,  cold,  scaly  body  just  back 
of  the  crotched  stick,  and  lifted.  The  great  snake's 
black,  fixed,  devilish  eyes  looked  into  mine.  If,  in 
this  world,  there  are  peep-holes  into  hell,  they  are 
found  in  the  eyes  of  an  enraged  rattlesnake.  As  he 
came  clear  of  the  ground,  he  coiled  round  my  arm 
to  the  elbow,  so  that  the  rattles  sounded  not  a  foot 
from  my  ear.  Although  the  rattlesnake  is  not  a 
constrictor,  and  there  was  no  real  danger,  yet  under 
the  touch  of  his  body  my  arm  quivered  like  a  tuning- 
fork. 

"What  makes  your  arm  shake  so?"  queried  Jim, 
watching  me  critically. 

"It's  probably  rheumatism,"  I  assured  him. 

Suddenly,  under  my  grip,  the  snake's  mouth  open- 
ed, showing  on  either  side  of  the  upper  jaw  ridges 
of  white  gum.  From  these  suddenly  flashed  the 
movable  fangs  which  are  always  folded  back  until 
ready  for  use.  They  were  hollow  and  of  a  glistening 
white.  Halfway  down  on  the  side  of  each  was  a  tiny 
hole,  from  which  the  yellow  venom  slowly  oozed.  I 
began  tremulously  to  unwind  my  unwelcome  arm- 
let, while  Tin  waited  with  the  open  bag. 

"Be  sure  you  take  your  hand  away  quick  after  you 
drop  him  in,"  advised  Jim. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  I  replied;  "no 
man  will  ever  get  his  hand  away  quicker  than  I'm 
going  to." 


ORCHID-HUNTING  155 

Whereupon  I  unwound  the  rattling  coils  from  my 
arm,  and  then  broke  all  speed  records  in  removing 
my  hand  from  the  neighborhood  of  that  snake. 
This  was  my  first  introduction  to  the  King  of  the 
Dark  Places,  the  grim  timber  rattlesnake,  the  hand- 
somest of  all  the  thirteen  varieties  found  within  the 
United  States. 

On  my  way  back  from  the  den  it  was  Jim  Pan  who 
pointed  out  to  me  on  the  lower  slope  of  the  mountain 
the  beautiful  showy  orchid  (Orchis  spectabilis) .  Be- 
tween two  oblong  shining  green  leaves  grew  a  loose 
spike  of  purple-pink  and  white  butterfly  blossoms. 
This  is  the  first  of  the  orchids  to  appear,  and  no 
more  exquisite  or  beautiful  flower  could  head  the 
procession  which  stretches  from  May  until  Septem- 
ber. I  find  this  flower  but  seldom,  usually  because 
I  am  not  in  the  hill-country  early  enough,  although 
once  I  found  a  perfect  flower  in  bloom  as  late  as  Dec- 
oration Day,  a  left-over  from  the  first  spring  flowers. 

It  was  Jim,  too,  that  day,  who  quite  appropri- 
ately showed  me  the  rattlesnake  plantain  (Goody era 
pubescens),  with  its  rosette  of  green  leaves  heavily 
veined  with  white,  from  the  centre  of  which  in  late 
summer  grows  a  spike  of  crowded,  greenish-white 
flowers.  Under  the  doctrine  of  signatures,  these 
leaves  are  still  thought  by  many  to  be  a  sure  cure  for 
the  bite  of  a  rattlesnake.  Personally,  I  would  rather 
rely  on  a  sharp  knife  and  permanganate  of  potash. 
In  the  same  group  as  the  rattlesnake  plantain  are 
several  varieties  of  lady's  tresses,  which  grow  in 
every  damp  meadow  in  midsummer  and  early  fall. 


156  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Little  spikes  of  greenish-white  flowers  they  are,  grow- 
ing out  of  what  looks  like  a  twisted  or  braided  stem. 
Of  them  all  the  most  interesting  to  me  is  the  grass- 
leaved  lady's  tresses  (Gyrostachys  prcecox),  where  the 
flowers  grow  round  and  round  the  stem  in  a  perfect 
spiral. 

As  I  went  on  with  my  hunting,  I  learned  that  not 
all  the  members  of  the  orchis  family  are  beautiful. 
There  is  the  coral  root,  with  tiny  dull  brownish- 
purple  flowers,  which  one  finds  growing  in  dry  woods, 
often  near  colonies  of   the  Indian  pipe.    The  green 
and    the    ragged-fringed    orchids    are    other    disap- 
pointing members.     Yet,  to  a  confirmed  collector, 
even  these  poor  relations  of  the  family  are  full  of 
interest.    In  fact,  the  second  rarest  orchid  of  our 
American    list  —  the    celebrated    crane-fly     orchid 
(Tipularia  unifolia)  —  has   a    series  of   insignificant 
greenish-purple  blossoms  which  look  as  much  like 
mosquitoes  or  flies  as  anything  else,  and  can  be  de- 
tected only  with  the  greatest  difficulty.    Yet  I  am 
planning  to  take  a  journey  of  several  hundred  miles 
this  very  summer  on  the  off-chance  of   seeing  one 
of  these  flowers.    Nearly  as  rare  is  the  strange  ram's- 
head    lady 's-slipper    (Cypripedium    arietinum),  the 
rarest  of  all  the  cypripedia  and  belonging  to  the  same 
family  as  the  glorious  moccasin  flower  and  queen 
flower.  The  lip  of  the  ram  's-head  consists  of  a  strange 
greenish  pouch  with  purple  streaks,  shaped  like  the 
head  of  a  ram. 

There  are  scores  of  other  odd,  often  lovely,  and  usu- 
ally rare,  members  of  the  great  orchis  family,  which 


ORCHID-HUNTING  157 

can  be  met  with  from  May  to  September.  There  is 
the  beautiful  golden  whip-poor-will's  shoe,  in  two 
sizes  (Cypripedium  hirsutum,  and  Cypripedium  parvi- 
florum),  and  those  lovely  nymphs,  rose-purple  Are- 
thusa  (Arethusa  bulbosa),  and  Calypso  (Calypso  bore- 
alis),  with  her  purple  blossom  varied  with  pink  and 
shading  to  yellow. 

One  of  the  fascinations  of  orchid-hunting  is  the 
fact  that  you  may  suddenly  light  upon  a  strange 
orchid  growing  in  a  place  which  you  have  passed  for 
years.  Such  a  happening  came  to  me  the  day  when  I 
first  found  the  rose  pogonia  (Pogonia  ophioglossoides) . 
I  was  following  a  cow-path  through  the  hard  hack 
pastures  which  I  had  traveled  perhaps  a  hundred 
times  before.  Suddenly,  as  I  came  to  the  slope  of 
the  upper  pasture,  growing  in  the  wet  bank  of  the 
deep-cut  trail,  my  eye  caught  sight  of  a  little  flower 
of  the  purest  rose-pink,  the  color  of  the  peach-blos- 
som, with  a  deeply  fringed  drooping  lip,  the  whole 
flower  springing  from  a  slender  stem  with  oval, 
grass-like  leaves.  To  me  it  had  a  fragrance  like  al- 
monds, although  others  have  found  in  it  the  scent 
of  sweet  violets  or  of  fresh  raspberries.  It  is  the 
pogonia  family  which  includes  the  rarest  of  all  of 
our  orchids,  the  almost  unknown  smaller  whorled 
pogonia  (Pogonia  affinis).  Few  indeed  have  been  the 
botanists  who  have  seen  even  a  pressed  specimen  of 
this  strange  flower. 

Two  weeks  after  I  found  the  rose  pogonia,  I  came 
again  to  visit  her.  To  my  astonishment  and  delight, 
by  her  side  was  growing  another  orchid,  like  some 


158  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

purple-pink  butterfly  which  had  alighted  on  a  long 
swaying  stern.  It  was  no  other  than  the  beautiful 
grass-pink  (Limodorum  tuberosum),  which  blooms  in 
July,  while  the  pogonia  comes  out  in  late  June. 
The  grass-pink  has  from  two  to  six  blossoms  on  each 
stem,  and  the  yellow  lip  is  above  instead  of  below  the 
flower,  as  in  the  case  of  most  orchids.  Years  later  I 
was  to  find  this  orchid  growing  by  scores  in  the  pine- 
barrens. 

Last,  but  by  no  means  least,  is  the  great  genus 
Habenaria  —  the  exquisite  fringed  orchids.  Purple, 
white,  gold,  green  —  they  wear  all  these  colors.  He 
who  has  never  seen  either  the  large  or  the  small 
purple  fringed  orchid  growing  in  the  June  or  July 
meadows,  or  the  flaming  yellow  fringed  orchid  all 
orange  and  gold  in  the  i^ugust  meadows,  has  still 
much  for  which  to  live. 

It  was  with  an  orchid  of  this  genus  that  I  had  my 
most  recent  adventure.  I  had  traveled  with  the  Bot- 
anist into  the  heart  of  the  pine-barrens.  There  may 
be  places  where  more  flowers  and  rarer  flowers  and 
sweeter  flowers  grow  than  in  these  barrens,  but  if  so, 
the  Botanist  and  I  have  never  found  the  spot.  From 
the  early  spring,  when  the  water  freezes  in  the  hollow 
leaves  of  the  pitcher-plant,  to  the  last  gleam  of  the 
orange  polygala  in  the  late  fall,  we  are  always  finding 
something  rare  and  new.  On  that  August  day  we 
followed  a  dim  path  that  led  through  thickets  of 
scrub-oak  and  sweet  pepper-bush.  By  its  side  grew 
clumps  of  deer-grass,  with  its  purple-pink  petals  and 
masses  of  orange-colored  stamens.    Sometimes  the 


ORCHID-HUNTING  159 

path  would  disappear  from  sight  in  masses  of  hud- 
sonia  and  sand-myrtle.  Everywhere  above  the 
blueberry  bushes  flamed  the  regal  Turk's-cap  lily, 
with  its  curved  fire-red  petals.  On  high  the  stalks 
towered  above  a  tangle  of  lesser  plants  bearing 
great  candelabra  of  glorious  blossoms. 

Finally,  we  came  to  a  little  ditch  which  some  for- 
gotten cranberry-grower  had  dug  through  the  barrens 
to  a  long-deserted  bog.  On  its  side  grew  the  rare 
thread-leafed  sundew,  with  its  long  thread-like 
leaf  covered  with  tiny  red  hairs  and  speckled  thick 
with  glittering  drops  of  dew;  while  here  and  there 
little  insects,  which  had  alighted  on  the  sweet,  fatal 
drops,  were  enmeshed  in  the  entangling  hairs.  Well 
above  the  line  of  strangled  insects  on  which  it  fed, 
a  pink  blossom  smiled  unconcernedly.  Like  the  at- 
tractive lady  mentioned  in  Proverbs,  her  house  goes 
down  into  the  chambers  of  death. 

As  we  followed  the  dike,  the  air  was  sweet  with  the 
perfume  of  white  alder.  The  long  stream  of  brown 
cedar-water  was  starred  white  with  gleaming,  fra- 
grant water-lilies.  In  a  marsh  by  the  ditch  grew 
clumps  of  cotton-grass  or  pussytoes,  each  stem  of 
which  bore  a  tuft  of  soft  brown  wool,  like  the  down 
which  a  mother  rabbit  pulls  from  her  breast  when 
she  lines  her  nest  for  her  babies. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  abandoned  cranberry  bog. 
Suddenly  the  Botanist  jumped  into  the  ditch, 
splashed  his  way  across,  and  disappeared  in  the  bog, 
waving  his  arms  over  his  head.  I  found  him  on  his 
knees  in  the  wet  sphagnum  moss,  chanting  ecstati- 


160  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

cally  the  mystic  word  "Blephariglottis."  In  front  of 
him,  on  a  green  stem,  was  clustered  a  mass  of  little 
flowers  of  incomparable  whiteness,  with  fringed  lips 
and  long  spikes.  One  petal  bent  like  a  canopy  over 
the  brown  stamens,  while  the  other  two  flared  out  on 
either  side,  like  the  wings  of  tiny  white  butterflies. 
It  was  the  white-fringed  orchid  (Habenaria  blephari- 
glottis). Beside  her  whiteness  even  the  snowy  petals 
of  the  water-lily  and  the  white  alder  showed  yellow 
tones.  Like  El  Nath  among  the  stars,  the  white 
fringed  orchid  is  the  standard  of  whiteness  for  the 
flowers. 

Three  great  blue  herons  flew  over  our  heads,  folded 
their  wings,  and  alighted  not  thirty  yards  away  — 
an  unheard-of  proceeding  for  this  wary  bird.  A 
Henslow  sparrow  sang  his  abrupt  and,  to  us,  almost 
unknown  song.  The  Botanist  neither  saw  nor  heard. 
All  the  way  home  he  was  in  a  blissful  daze,  and  when 
I  said  good-bye  to  him  at  the  station,  he  only  mur- 
mured happily  "Blephariglottis." 


THE  GREAT   BLUE   HERON  AT  BREAKFAST 


X 

THE  MARSH  DWELLERS 

The  sweet,  hot,  wild  scent  of  the  marsh  came  up  to 
us.  It  was  compounded  of  sun  and  wind  and  the  clean 
dry  smell  of  miles  and  miles  of  bleaching  sedges,  all 
mingled  with  the  seethe  and  steam  of  a  green  blaze 
of  growth  that  had  leaped  from  the  ooze  to  meet 
the  summer.  Through  it  all  drifted  tiny  elusive  puffs 
of  fragrance  from  flowers  hidden  under  thickets  of 
willow  and  elderberry.  The  smooth  petals  of  wild 
roses  showed  among  the  rushes,  like  coral  set  in  jade. 
On  the  sides  of  burnt  tussocks,  where  the  new  grass 
grew  sparse  as  hair  on  a  scarred  skull,  rue  anemones 
trembled  above  their  trefoil  leaves.  When  the  world 
was  young  they  sprang  from  the  tears  which  Aphro- 
dite shed  over  the  body  of  slain  Adonis.  Still  the  pale 
wind-driven  flowers  sway  as  if  shaken  by  her  sobs, 
and  have  the  cold  whiteness  of  him  dead. 

The  leaves  of  the  meadow  rue,  like  some  rare  fern, 
showed  here  and  there,  but  the  clustered  white  flowers 
had  not  yet  bloomed,  nor  the  flat  yellow  blossoms  of 
the  shrubby  cinquefoil.  There  were  thickets  of  aronia 
or  chokeberry,  whose  flat  white  blossoms  and  reddish 
bark  showed  its  kinship  to  the  apple  tree.  Among 
the  pools  gleamed  marsh  marigolds  fresh  from  the 
mint  of  May,  while  deep  down  in  the  grass  at  the  foot 
of  the  tussocks  were  white  violets,  short-stemmed 


162  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  with  the  finest  of  umber-brown  traceries  at  the 
centre  of  their  petals.  The  blues  and  purples  may  or 
may  not  be  sweet,  but  one  can  always  count  on  the 
faint  fragrance  of  the  white. 

We  lay  on  the  turf  covering  a  ledge  of  smoky  quartz 
thrust  like  a  wedge  into  the  marsh.  Across  a  country 
of  round  green  hills  and  fertile  farms  its  squat  bulk 
stretched  unafraid,  an  untamed  monster  of  another 
age.  Beyond  the  long  levels  we  could  see  Wolf 
Island,  where  a  hunted  wolf -pack,  protected  by  quag- 
mires and  trembling  bogs,  made  its  last  stand  two 
centuries  ago.  Where  a  fringe  of  trees  showed  the 
beginning  of  solid  ground,  a  pair  of  hawks  with  long 
black-barred  tails  wheeled  and  screamed  through  the 
sky.  "Geek,  geek,  geek,  geek,"  they  called,  almost 
like  a  flicker,  except  that  the  tone  was  flatter.  As 
they  circled,  both  of  them  showed  a  snowy  patch  over 
the  rump,  the  field-mark  of  the  marsh  hawk.  The 
male  was  a  magnificent  blue-gray  bird,  whose  white 
under-wings  were  tipped  with  black  like  those  of  a 
herring  gull.  We  watched  them  delightedly,  for  the 
rare  nest  of  the  marsh  hawk,  the  only  one  of  our 
hawks  which  nests  on  the  ground,  was  one  of  the 
possibilities  of  the  marsh. 

Suddenly  we  heard  from  behind  us  a  sound  that 
sent  us  crawling  carefully  up  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge. 
It  was  like  the  pouring  of  water  out  of  some  gigan- 
tic bottle  or  the  gurgling  suck  of  an  old-fashioned 
pump:  "Bloop —  bloop,  bloop,  bloop,  bloop" —  it 
came  to  us  with  a  strange  subterranean  timbre.  The 
last  time  I  had  heard  that  note  was  in  the  pine- 


THE  MARSH  DWELLERS  163 

barrens  three  years  before.  Then  it  sounded  like  the 
thudding  of  a  mallet  on  a  stake,  for  its  quality 
always  depends  on  the  nature  of  the  country  across 
which  it  travels.  From  the  top  of  our  knoll  we  saw  a 
•rare  sight.  In  the  open  pasture  by  the  edge  of  the 
marsh  stood  a  bird  between  two  and  three  feet  high, 
of  a  streaked  brown  color,  with  a  black  stripe  down 
each  side  of  its  neck.  Even  as  we  watched,  the  bird 
began  a  series  of  extraordinary  actions.  Hunching 
its  long  neck  far  down  between  its  shoulders,  it 
suddenly  thrust  it  up.  As  each  section  straightened, 
there  came  to  us  across  the  pasture  the  thudding, 
bubbling,  watery  note  which  we  had  first  heard. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  a  bird  could  make  such  a 
volume  of  sound.  At  times,  after  each  "bloop," 
would  come  the  sharp  click  of  the  bill  as  it  rapidly 
opened  and  shut.  Finally  the  singer  convulsively 
straightened  the  last  kink  out  of  its  neck  and  with  a 
last  retching  note  thrust  its  long  yellow  beak  straight 
skyward.  We  had  seen  an  American  bittern  boom  — 
a  rarer  sight  even  than  the  drumming  of  a  ruffed 
grouse  or  the  strange  flight-song  of  the  woodcock  at 
twilight.  Suddenly  the  bittern  stopped  and,  hunch- 
ing its  neck,  stepped  stealthily,  like  a  little  old  bent 
man,  into  the  sedges.  With  its  long  beak  pointing 
directly  upward,  it  stood  motionless  and  seemed  to 
melt  into  the  color  of  the  withered  rushes.  One  look 
away,  and  it  was  almost  impossible  for  the  eye  to 
pick  the  bird  out  from  its  cover. 

I  turned  to  look  at  the  marsh  hawks  just  in  time 
to  see  the  female  alight  on  the  ground  by  a  stunted 


164  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

willow  bush  far  across  the  marsh.  I  waited,  one, 
two,  three  minutes,  but  no  bird  rose.  Evidently  she 
was  on  the  nest.  Keeping  my  eye  fixed  on  that  special 
bush,  which  looked  like  a  score  of  others,  I  plunged 
into  the  marsh,  intending  to  bound  like  a  chamois 
from  crag  to  crag.  On  the  second  bound  I  slipped  off 
a  tussock  and  went  up  to  my  knees  in  mud  and 
water.  The  rest  of  the  way  I  ploughed  along, 
making  a  noise  at  each  step  like  the  bittern's  note. 
Half-way  to  the  bush,  the  mother  hawk  rose  and 
circled  around  us,  screaming  monotonously.  For 
half  an  hour  we  searched  back  and  forth  without 
finding  any  nest.  At  last  we  hid  in  a  willow  thicket, 
thinking  that  perhaps  the  hawk  might  go  back  to 
her  nest.  Instead,  both  birds  disappeared  in  some 
distant  woods.  The  sun  was  getting  low  and  we  were 
miles  from  our  inn;  yet  as  this  was  the  nearest 
either  of  us  had  ever  been  to  finding  a  marsh  hawk's 
nest,  we  decided  to  hunt  on  until  dark. 

I  laid  out  a  route  from  my  bush  to  another  about 
thirty  yards  away,  and  between  those  two  as  bounds 
planned  to  quarter  back  and  forth  over  every  square 
foot  of  ground,  moving  toward  the  woods  where  the 
hawks  had  gone.  It  seemed  an  almost  hopeless  hunt, 
for  the  marsh  at  this  point  was  dry,  with  patches  of 
bushes,  masses  of  sedge,  and  piled  heaps  here  and 
there  of  dry  rushes.  As  I  reached  my  farther  boun- 
dary and  was  about  to  return,  I  straightened  my 
aching  back  and  looked  beyond  the  bush.  There, 
directly  ahead,  in  a  space  fringed  by  spirea  bushes 
but  in  plain  sight,  lay  a  round  nest  on  the  ground  — 


THE  MARSH  DWELLERS  165 

about  eight  inches  across  and  three  inches  deep, 
made  of  coarse  grasses  ringed  around  with  rushes. 
Beneath  the  nest  was  a  well-packed  platform  several 
inches  thick.  I  think  that  this  was  a  natural  pile 
of  rushes  pressed  down  by  the  bird.  There,  under 
the  open  sky,  were  five  large  eggs  of  a  dirty  bluish- 
white,  nearly  ready  to  hatch.  They  were  the  size  of 
a  small  hen's  egg.  The  very  second  I  caught  sight  of 
the  nest  the  mother  hawk  came  dashing  through  the 
air,  from  some  unseen  perch  where  she  had  been 
watching  me  with  her  telescopic  eyes.  Fifty  feet 
away,  she  folded  her  wings  and  dived  at  my  head, 
falling  through  the  air  like  a  stone.  With  her  fierce 
unflinching  eyes,  half -open  beak,  and  outspread  claws, 
she  looked  dangerous.  Ten  feet  away,  however, 
she  swooped  up  and  circled  off  in  ever-widening  rings, 
screaming  mournfully.  Beside  the  nest  was  one 
barred  tail-feather. 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about: 

For  there  I  picked  upon  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

Something  of  this  we  felt  as  we  lingered  over  this 
long-sought  nest,  making  notes  and  photographs  — 
our  way  of  collecting. 


166  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Just  at  sunset  we  waded  back  and  stopped  at  the 
little  arm  of  the  swamp  where  we  had  first  heard  the 
bittern.  Suddenly  from  the  sedges  came  a  scolding 
little  song  that  sounded  like  "Chop,  chip-chop, 
chp'p'p'pV  and  we  caught  the  merest  glimpse  of  a 
tiny  bird  with  a  tip-tilted  tail  and  brown  back  whose 
undersides  seemed  yellowish.  It  was  none  other  than 
the  rare  short-billed  marsh  wren,  next  to  the  smallest 
of  our  Eastern  birds,  only  the  hummingbird  being 
tinier.  Neither  of  us  had  ever  seen  this  marsh  wren 
before,  and  we  tramped  back  three  long  miles  to 
town  with  a  new  bird,  a  new  nest,  and  a  new  note 
to  our  credit  in  our  out-of-doors  account. 

That  night  over  a  good  dinner  we  were  joined  by 
the  other  two  of  our  Four  who  for  many  happy  years 
have  hunted  together.  Just  at  dawn  the  next  day, 
we  all  stole  out  of  the  sleeping  inn  and  along  the 
silent  village  streets,  sweet  with  the  scent  of  lilacs. 
Right  in  front  of  the  town  hall  we  found  the  first 
nest  of  the  day.  Cunningly  hidden  in  the  crotch 
of  a  sugar  maple,  just  over  the  heads  of  hundreds 
of  unseeing  passers-by,  a  robin  had  brooded  day  by 
day  over  four  eggs  whose  heavenly  blue  made  a  jewel- 
casket  of  her  mud  nest.  I  hope  that  the  brave 
silent  bird  raised  her  babies  and  sent  them  out  to 
add  to  the  world 's  store  of  music  and  beauty. 

Beyond  the  village  we  dragged  a  meadow.  A  long 
cord  was  tied  to  the  ankles  of  two  of  us,  and  each 
walked  away  from  the  other  until  it  was  taut  and  then 
marched  slowly  through  the  fields.  The  moving  line 
just  swished  the  top  of  the  long  grass  and  flushed 


THE  MARSH  DWELLERS  167 

any  ground  birds  that  might  be  nesting  within  the 
area  covered  by  the  fifty-foot  cord.  Our  first  haul 
was  a  vesper  sparrow's  nest  with  one  egg —  the 
bird  breaking  cover  near  my  end.  Later  in  the  day 
another  of  our  party  found  a  better  nest  of  the  same 
bird  in  the  middle  of  a  field,  made  and  lined  with  grass 
and  set  in  a  little  hollow  in  the  ground.  It  held  three 
eggs  of  a  bluish  white,  blotched  and  clouded  with 
umber  and  lavender  at  the  larger  ends.  Two  of  the 
eggs  were  marked  with  black  hieroglyphics  like 
those  seen  in  the  eggs  of  an  oriole  or  red-winged 
blackbird.  The  vesper  is  that  gray  sparrow  which 
shows  two  white  tail-feathers  when  it  flies,  and 
sings  an  alto  song  whose  first  two  notes  are  always 
in  a  different  key  from  the  rest  of  the  strain. 

In  another  field  we  flushed  a  bobolink.  Unfortu- 
nately the  Artist,  whose  duty  it  was  to  watch  the  rope, 
was  at  the  moment  gazing  skywards  at  cloud-effects, 
and  though  we  burrowed  and  peered  for  a  full  hour 
in  the  fragrant  dripping  grass,  we  never  found 
that  nest.  The  home  of  a  bobolink  is  one  of  the  best 
hidden  of  all  of  our  common  ground-builders.  I  re- 
member one  Decoration  Day  when  I  highly  resolved 
to  find  a  bobolink 's  nest  in  a  field  where  several  pairs 
were  nesting.  Early  in  my  hunt  I  decided  that  the 
gay  black-and-white  males,  which  seemed  to  be  fly- 
ing and  singing  aimlessly,  were  really  signaling  my 
approach  to  the  females  on  the  nests.  At  any  rate, 
the  mother  birds  would  rise  far  ahead  as  I  came  near, 
evidently  after  having  run  for  long  distances  through 
the  grass,  and  gave  me  no  clue  as  to  the  whereabouts 


168  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

of  their  nests.    I  decided,  however,  that  my  only 
chance  was  to  watch  these  females,  knowing  that  an 
incubating   bird   will   not   leave   her   eggs   for   any 
great  length  of  time.    Accordingly,  when  the  next 
streaked  brown  bird  flew  up  far  ahead  of  me,  I  settled 
down  in  the  long  grass  with  a  field-glass  and  carefully 
watched  her  flight.    She  crossed  the  meadow  and 
alighted  some  three  hundred  yards  away.    In  about 
fifteen  minutes  she  came  back  and  settled  in  the  grass 
on  a  slope  some  distance  from  where  she  had  flown 
out.  Almost  immediately  she  flew  out  again,  probably 
warned  by  the  male  on  guard.  Once  more  she  crossed 
the  meadow,  and  this  time  stayed  away  so  long  that 
I  nearly  fell  asleep  in  the  drowsy,  scented  grass. 
In  the  meantime,  one  by  one,  the  songs  of  the  males, 
like  the  tinkling,  gurgling  notes  of  a  trout-brook, 
ceased,  and  my  part  of  the  meadow  seemed  deserted. 
Finally    through    my    half-shut    eyes    I    saw    Mrs. 
Bobolink   come   flying   low    over   the   tops   of   the 
waving  grass.    As  I  lay  perfectly  still,  she  made  a 
half -circle  around  the  slope  and  suddenly  disappeared 
in  the  ripple  of  a  green  wave  that  rose  to  meet  the 
wind.    I  marked  the  place  by  a  tall  weed  stalk,  and 
waited  a  minute  to  see  whether  this  was  another 
feint.    As  she  did  not  appear,  I  ran  up  as  rapidly 
and  silently  as  possible  before  the  father  bird  could 
spy  me  from  the  other  side  of  the  pasture  and  cry 
the  alarm.    Perhaps  he  had  become  careless  while 
rollicking  with  his  friends.    At    any  rate,  when    I 
reached  the  place  there  was  no  sign  of  any  bobolink 
near  me. 


THE  MARSH  DWELLERS  169 

When  I  was  a  couple  of  yards  away  from  the  weed- 
stalk,  up  sprang  the  female  bobolink,  apparently 
from  almost  the  very  spot  I  had  noted.  This  was 
encouraging;  it  showed  that  she  had  not  run  through 
the  grass  any  distance  this  time,  either  when  flushed 
or  when  alighting.  Almost  immediately  the  truant 
father  bird  appeared  and  sang  gayly  near  me,  occa- 
sionally diving  mysteriously  and  impressively  into  the 
grass  in  different  places,  as  if  visiting  a  nest.  I  was 
not  to  be  distracted  by  any  such  tactics,  but  threw 
my  hat  to  the  exact  spot  from  which,  as  I  judged, 
the  female  had  started.  With  this  as  a  centre  I 
pushed  back  the  long  grass  and  began  to  search 
the  area  of  a  five-foot  circle,  first  looking  hurriedly 
under  the  hat  to  make  sure  that  it  had  not  covered 
the  nest.  My  search  was  all  in  vain,  although  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  examined  every  square  inch 
of  that  circle.  At  last  I  decided  that  the  sly  birds 
had  again  deceived  me.  Taking  up  my  hat,  I  was 
about  to  begin  another  watch,  when,  in  the  very  spot 
where  the  hat  had  lain,  I  noticed  that  the  long  leaves 
of  a  narrow-leafed  plantain  at  one  place  had  been 
parted,  showing  a  hole  underneath.  I  carefully 
separated  the  leaves,  and  before  me  lay  the  long- 
desired  nest.  It  was  only  a  shallow  hollow  under  the 
leaves,  lined  with  fine  dry  grass  and  containing  four 
dark  eggs  heavily  blotched  and  marbled  with  red- 
brown. 

It  is  probable  that  ordinarily,  when  the  mother 
bird  left  the  nest,  she  would  arrange  the  leaves  so 
as  entirely  to  cover  the  hole  beneath.   If  this  were 


170  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

done,  it  would  seem  impossible  that  they  concealed 
anything,  for  they  would  be  apparently  flat  on  the 
surface  of  the  ground.  My  unexpected  approach 
had  flushed  her  before  she  had  time  to  put  back  the 
leaves. 

The  pleasure  of  finding  such  a  skilfully  concealed 
nest  is  indescribable.  The  hunt  is  a  contest  between 
intelligence  and  instinct,  where  victory  by  no  means 
always  inclines  to  the  human.  As  I  looked  down  at 
the  nest,  I  knew  just  how  the  talented  recluse  in 
"The  Gold  Bug"  felt  when,  after  solving  the  crypto- 
gram and  disposing  of  every  difficulty,  he  at  last 
gazed  into  the  open  treasure-chest. 

To-day  there  was  to  be  no  such  glorious  experience, 
and  we  finally  gave  up  the  hunt  and  started  back 
across  the  meadow.  As  we  moved  through  the  swish- 
ing grass,  suddenly  we  heard  a  curious  clicking 
bird-note.  "See-lick,  see-lick,  see-lick,"  it  sounded, 
and  we  recognized  the  unfamiliar  notes  of  that  rare 
little  black-striped  sparrow,  the  Henslow.  The 
last  time  we  four  had  heard  that  note  together  was 
on  a  trip  into  the  heart  of  the  pine-barrens,  when  we 
not  only  identified  this  bird  for  the  first  time,  but  also 
found  its  nest,  a  treasure-trove  indeed.  To-day  we 
did  not  even  get  a  glimpse  of  the  bird. 

Beyond  the  meadows  we  came  face  to  face  with  the 
marsh  itself,  and  plunged  in  to  show  the  Banker 
and  the  Architect  our  marsh  hawk's  nest.  On  the 
way  back  the  Artist  made  a  discovery.  Waist-deep 
among  the  sedges,  with  the  tiny  marsh  wrens  chip- 
ping and  bubbling  all  around  him,  he  suddenly  espied 


THE  MARSH  DWELLERS  171 

a  round  ball  made  of  green  grass  fastened  to  the  rushes 
with  a  little  hole  in  one  side. 

"The  nest  of  the  short-billed  marsh  wren!"  he 
declared  loudly.  We  hurried  to  him.  The  nest  was 
empty,  but,  as  it  was  early  for  the  wrens  to  be  laying, 
this  fact  had  no  effect  on  his  triumph.  We  admired 
the  nest,  the  bird,  and  the  discoverer  freely  —  all 
except  the  Architect,  who  lingered  behind  the  rest  of 
us,  regarding  the  nest  with  much  suspicion.  Sud- 
denly he  noted  a  movement  in  the  grass,  and  as  he 
watched,  a  tawny  little  meadow  mouse  climbed  up 
the  grass-stems  and  popped  into  the  hole  in  the  side, 
to  find  out  what  this  inquisitive  race  of  giants  had 
been  doing  to  his  house.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the 
Artist.  At  first  he  denied  the  mouse.  Then,  when  it 
dashed  out  in  front  of  us,  he  claimed  that  its  presence 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  question  of  the  owner- 
ship of  the  nest. 

"Isn't  it  possible,"  he  demanded  bitterly,  "that 
a  well-behaved  meadow  mouse  may  make  a  neigh- 
borly call  on  a  marsh  wren?" 

"No,"  replied  the  Architect  decisively;  and  we 
started  away  from  the  discredited  nest. 

Later  on,  the  Artist  had  his  revenge.  We  were 
hunting  everywhere  for  the  bittern 's  nest.  Suddenly, 
as  the  Artist  stepped  on  a  tussock,  a  large  squawk- 
ing bird  flew  out  from  under  his  foot.  No  wonder 
she  squawked.  He  had  stepped  so  nearly  on  top  of 
her  that,  as  she  escaped,  she  left  behind  a  handful 
of  long,  beautifully  mottled  tail-feathers,  unmis- 
takably those  of  an  English  pheasant.    The  nest 


172  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

was  at  the  side  of  the  tussock,  entirely  covered  over 
with  the  arched  reeds,  and  contained  fifteen  eggs, 
three  of  which  the  clumsy  foot  of  the  Artist  had 
broken.  They  were  of  a  chocolate  color  and,  curi- 
ously enough,  almost  identical  in  color  and  size  with 
those  of  the  American  bittern,  except  that  the  inside 
of  the  shell  of  the  broken  eggs  was  a  light  blue. 
The  nest  itself  was  nearly  eight  inches  across  and 
about  three  inches  deep,  made  entirely  of  grass. 
Hurriedly  clearing  away  the  broken  eggs,  we  called 
the  Architect  from  the  far  side  of  the  marsh.  He 
hastened  up,  took  one  look  at  the  nest,  and  then  told 
us  solemnly  that  this  was  one  of  the  most  unusual 
occurrences  known  in  ornithology.  Three  pairs  of 
bitterns  had  joined  housekeeping  and  laid  eggs  in 
the  same  nest.  It  was  hard  on  the  Architect  that  we 
should  have  flushed  probably  the  only  bird  in  the 
world  whose  eggs  are  almost  identical  in  color  and 
size  with  those  of  the  American  bittern,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  Artist  produced  the  pheasant's  tail- 
feathers  that  our  friend  would  admit  that  there  was 
anything  wrong  with  his  theory. 

As  we  started  to  leave  the  place,  I  saw  on  the  other 
side  of  the  tussock  the  largest  wood-turtle  I  have 
ever  met.  Its  legs  and  tail  were  of  a  bright  brick- 
red,  while  the  shell  was  beautifully  carved  in  deep 
intaglios  of  dingy  black  and  yellow.  This  turtle 
ranks  next  to  the  terrapin  in  taste,  a  fact  which  I 
proved  the  next  day.  As  Mr.  Wood-Turtle  is  fond  of 
bird's  eggs,  I  strongly  suspect  that  my  capture  of 
him  was  all  that  saved  the  lives  of  a  round  dozen 


THE  MARSH   DWELLERS  173 

of  prospective  pheasants.  We  had  a  leisurely  lunch 
near  one  of  the  coldest  bubbling  springs  in  the  world, 
seated  on  a  high,  dry  ridge  under  the  shade  of  a  vast 
black-walnut  tree.  After  lunch  we  crossed  quaking, 
treacherous  bogs,  that  lapped  at  our  feet  as  we  passed, 
and  reached  Wolf  Island.  It  was  made  up  of  a  series 
of  rocky  ridges,  shaded  with  trees  and  masked  by  a 
dense  undergrowth.  Beneath  the  great  boulders  and 
at  the  base  of  tiny  cliffs,  we  could  trace  dark  holes 
and  burrows  where  two  centuries  ago  the  celebrated 
pack  made  their  home. 

Beyond  the  Island  a  tawny  bird  slipped  out  of  a 
tussock  ahead  of  me,  like  a  shadow.  Hurrying  to 
the  place,  I  found  the  perfectly  rounded  nest  of  a 
veery  thrush,  lined  with  leaves  and  entirely  arched 
over  by  the  long  marsh-grass.  From  the  brown 
leaf -bed  the  four  vivid  blue  eggs  gleamed  out  of  the 
green  grass  like  turquoises  set  in  malachite.  The 
eggs  of  a  catbird  are  of  a  deeper  blue,  and  those  of  a 
hermit  thrush  of  a  purer  tone,  but  of  all  the  blue 
eggs,  of  robin,  wood  thrush,  hermit  thrush,  bluebird, 
cuckoo,  or  catbird,  there  is  none  so  vivid  in  its  color- 
ing as  that  of  the  veery.  That  nest  with  its  beautiful 
setting  stands  out  in  my  mind  as  a  notable  addition 
to  my  collection  of  out-of-door  memories. 

More  searchings  followed  without  results,  until 
the  sun  was  westering  well  down  the  sky.  Five 
miles  lay  between  us  and  clean  clothes  and  a  bath. 
Reluctantly  we  left  the  marsh,  with  our  bittern's 
nest  still  unfound.  As  we  approached  the  village, 
we  saw  showing  over  the  meadows  the  edge  of  a  con- 


174  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

tinuation  of  the  marsh,  and  decided  that  we  had  time 
for  just  one  more  exploring  trip.  Here  we  found  the 
worst  going  of  the  day.  In  front  of  us  were  innum- 
erable dry  cat-tail  stalks  and  hollow  reed-stems, 
while  the  mud  was  deeper  and  the  mosquitoes  were 
fiercer  than  in  the  main  swamp. 

At  last  the  Banker  and  the  Architect  sat  down 
exhausted  under  a  tree,  while  the  Artist  and  myself 
planned  to  cross  to  a  fringe  of  woods  on  the  farther 
side  before  giving  up.  In  the  middle  of  the  marsh 
we  separated,  and  before  long  I  found  myself  on  the 
trail  of  another  marsh  hawk's  nest.  It  was  evidently 
close  at  hand,  for  both  the  birds  swooped  down  and 
circled  around  my  head,  calling  frantically  all  the 
time.  Look  as  I  would,  however,  I  could  find  no  trace 
of  the  nest.  We  reached  the  woods  without  finding 
anything  and  came  back  together.  When  we  were 
within  two  hundred  yards  of  where  the  other  two 
were  luxuriously  waiting  for  us  in  the  shade,  from 
under  my  very  feet  flapped  a  monstrous  bird  nearly 
three  feet  high.  It  was  the  bittern.  I  was  so  close 
that  I  could  see  the  yellow  bill,  and  the  glossy  black 
on  the  sides  of  the  neck  and  tips  of  the  wings,  and 
the  different  shades  of  brown  on  back,  head,  and 
wings.  As  it  sprang  up,  it  gave  a  hoarse  cry  and 
flapped  off  with  labored  strokes  of  its  broad  wings. 
Right  before  me  was  a  flat  platform  of  reeds  about  a 
foot  in  diameter,  well  packed  down  and  raised  about 
five  inches  from  the  water.  On  this  platform  were  a 
shred  or  so  of  down  and  four  eggs  of  a  dull  coffee 
color.    In  a  moment  the  Banker  and  the  Architect 


THE   MARSH  DWELLERS  175 

were  splashing  and  crackling  through  the  mud  and 
reeds,  and  we  spent  the  last  quarter-hour  of  our  trip 
in  admiring  and  photographing  the  much-desired 
nest. 

So  ended  our  visit  to  Wolf  Island  Marsh  with  a 
list  of  fifty -one  birds  seen  and  heard,  and  seven  nests 
found,  photographed,  and  enjoyed. 


XI 
THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  years  ago,  seven 
saints  hid  from  heathen  persecutors  among  the  cold 
mountains  which  circle  Ephesus.  The  multitude  who 
cried,  "Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!"  are  drift- 
ing dust,  and  the  vast  city  itself  but  a  mass  of  half- 
buried  ruins.  Yet  somewhere  in  a  lonely  cave  sleep 
those  seven  holy  men,  unvexed  by  sorrow,  untouched 
by  time,  until  Christ  comes  again.  So  runs  the  legend. 

It  is  a  far  cry  to  Ephesus,  and  whether  the  Seven 
still  sleep  there,  who  may  say?  Yet  here  and  now 
seven  other  Sleepers  live  with  us,  who  slumber 
through  our  winters,  with  hunger  and  cold  and 
danger  but  a  dream.  Their  names  I  once  rhymed 
for  some  children  of  my  acquaintance.  As  I  am 
credibly  advised  that  the  progress  of  a  camel  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle  is  an  easy  process  compared  to 
having  a  poem  printed  by  the  Atlantic  Press,  I 
hasten  to  include  in  this  chapter  the  following 
exquisite  bit  of  free  verse  (I  call  it  free  because  I 
don't  get  anything  extra  for  it). 

The  Bat  and  the  Bear,  they  never  care 

What  winter  winds  may  blow; 
The  Jumping-Mouse  in  his  cozy  house 

Is  safe  from  ice  and  snow. 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  177 

The  Chipmunk  and  the  Woodchuck, 

The  Skunk,  who's  slow  but  sure, 
The  ringed  Raccoon,  who  hates  the  moon, 

Have  found  for  cold  the  cure. 

Something  of  the  lives  of  these  our  brethren  of 
the  wild  I  have  tried  to  set  forth  here  —  because  I 
care  for  them  all. 

First  comes  the  slyest,  the  shyest,  and  the  stillest 
of  the  Seven  —  the  blackbear,  who  yet  dwells  among 
men  when  his  old-time  companions,  the  timber- wolf 
and  the  panther,  have  been  long  gone.  Silent  as  a 
shadow,  he  is  with  us  far  oftener  than  we  know. 
Only  a  few  years  ago  bears  were  found  in  New  Jersey, 
in  dense  cedar-swamps,  unsuspected  by  a  generation 
of  near-by  farmers.  In  Pennsylvania  and  New  York 
they  are  increasing,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  they 
can  still  be  found  in  parts  of  New  England,  from 
which  they  are  supposed  to  have  disappeared  a  half- 
century  ago.  In  fact,  it  is  always  unsafe  to  say  that 
any  of  the  wild-folk  have  gone  forever.  I  have  lived 
to  see  a  herd  of  seven  Virginia  deer  feeding  in  my 
neighbor's  cabbage-patch  in  Connecticut,  although 
neither  my  father  nor  my  grandfather  ever  saw  a 
wild  deer  in  that  state.  In  that  same  township  I 
once  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  an  otter,  and  only  last 
winter,  within  thirty  miles  of  Philadelphia,  I  located 
a  colony  of  beaver. 

The  blackbear  is  nearly  as  black  as  a  blacksnake, 
whose  color  is  as  perfect  a  standard  of  absolute  black 
on  earth  as  El  Nath  is  of  white  among  the  stars. 


178  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

He  has  a  brownish  muzzle  and  a  white  diamond- 
shaped  patch  on  his  breast.  Sometimes  he  is  brown, 
or  red,  or  yellow,  or  even  white.  Not  so  wise  as  the 
wolf,  or  so  fierce  as  the  panther,  yet  the  blackbear 
has  outlived  them  both.  "When  in  doubt,  run!" 
is  his  motto;  and  like  Descartes,  the  wise  blackbear 
founds  his  life  on  the  doctrine  of  doubt.  As  for  the 
unwise  —  they  are  dead.  To  be  sure,  even  this  sav- 
ing rule  of  conduct  would  not  keep  him  alive  in  these 
days  of  repeating  rifles,  were  it  not  for  his  natural 
abilities.  A  bear  can  hear  a  hunter  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  and  scent  one  for  over  a  mile  if  the  wind  be 
right.  He  may  weigh  three  hundred  pounds  and  be 
over  two  feet  wide,  yet  he  will  slip  like  a  shadow 
through  tangled  underbrush  without  a  sound. 

Bear-cubs  are  born  in  January,  after  the  mother 
bear  has  gone  into  winter  quarters,  blind  and  bare 
and  pink,  and  so  small  that  two  of  them  can  be  held 
at  once  on  a  man's  hand.  Bears  mate  every  other 
year,  and  the  half-grown  cubs  hibernate  with  the 
mother  during  their  second  winter. 

The  blackbear  is  a  good  swimmer,  and  may  some- 
times be  seen  crossing  lonely  lakes  in  the  northern 
woods.  At  such  times  he  is  an  ugly  customer  to 
tackle  without  a  gun,  as  he  will  swim  straight  at  a 
canoe  and  tip  it  over  if  possible.  A  friend  of  mine, 
while  fishing  in  upper  Canada,  on  a  sluggish  river 
between  two  lakes,  saw  a  bear  swimming  well  ahead 
of  the  canoe.  He  began  to  paddle  with  all  his  might 
to  overtake  him,  but  to  his  surprise  seemed  to  be  mov- 
ing backwards.    Looking  around,  he  saw  his   guide, 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  179 

who  was  more  experienced  in  bear-ways,  backing 
water  desperately.  Just  then  the  swimming  animal 
turned  his  head  and  saw  the  canoe.  Instantly  the  hair 
on  his  back  bristled  and  stood  up  in  a  long  stiff  ridge, 
and  he  stopped  swimming  —  whereupon  my  friend 
found  himself  instantaneously,  automatically,  and  en- 
thusiastically assisting  the  guide. 

Even  where  the  blackbear  is  common,  one  may 
spend  a  long  lifetime  without  sight  or  sound  of  him. 
There  may  be  half  a  dozen  bear  feeding  in  a  berry- 
patch.  You  may  find  signs  that  they  are  close  at 
hand  and  all  about.  Yet  no  matter  how  you  may  hide 
and  skulk  and  hunt,  never  a  glimpse  of  one  of  them 
will  you  get.  In  bear  country  you  will  more  often 
smell  the  hot,  strong,  unmistakable  scent  of  a  bear 
who  is  watching  you  close  at  hand,  than  see  the  bear 
himself.  In  fact  the  sight  of  a  wild  blackbear  is  an 
adventure  worth  remembering. 

Personally,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that,  although  I 
have  tramped  and  camped  and  fished  and  hunted 
on  both  sides  of  the  continent,  I  have  never  really 
seen  a  bear.  Twice  I  have  had  glimpses  of  one. 
The  first  time  was  in  what  was  then  the  Territory  of 
Washington.  I  was  walking  with  a  friend  through  a 
bit  of  virgin  forest.  The  narrow  path  was  walled  in 
on  both  sides  by  impenetrable  wind-breaks  and  under- 
brush. As  we  suddenly  and  silently  came  around  a 
sharp  bend,  there  was  a  crash  through  a  mass  of  fallen 
trees,  and  I  almost  saw  what  caused  it.  At  least  I 
saw  the  bushes  move.  Right  ahead  of  us,  in  the 
mould  of  a  torn  and  rotted  stump,  was  a  foot-print 


180  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

like  that  of  a  broad,  short,  bare  human  foot.  It  was 
none  other  than  the  paw-mark  of  Mr.  Bear,  who 
is  a  plantigrade  and  walks  flat-footed.  Although  I 
was  sorry  to  miss  seeing  him,  yet  I  was  glad  that  it 
was  the  bear  and  not  the  man  who  had  to  dive 
through  that  underbrush. 

Another  time  I  was  camping  in  Maine.  Not  far 
from  our  tent,  which  we  had  cunningly  concealed 
on  a  little  knoll  near  the  edge  of  a  lonely  lake,  I  found 
a  tiny  brook  which  trickled  down  a  hillside.  Al- 
though it  ran  through  dense  underbrush,  it  was  possi- 
ble to  fish  it,  and  every  afternoon  I  would  bring  back 
half  a  dozen  jeweled  trout  to  broil  for  supper.  One 
day  I  had  gone  farther  in  than  usual,  and  was  stand- 
ing silently,  up  to  my  waist  in  water  and  brush, 
trying  to  cast  over  an  exasperating  bush  into  a  little 
pool  beyond.  Suddenly  I  smelt  bear.  Not  far  from 
me  there  sounded  a  very  faint  crackling  in  the  bushes 
on  a  little  ridge,  about  as  loud  as  a  squirrel  would 
make.  As  I  leaned  forward  to  look,  my  knee  came 
squarely  against  a  nest  of  enthusiastic  and  able- 
bodied  yellow-jackets.  Instantly  a  cloud  of  them 
burst  over  me  like  shrapnel,  stinging  my  unprotected 
face  unendurably.  As  I  struck  at  them  with  my 
hand,  I  caught  just  one  glimpse  of  a  patch  of  black 
fur  through  the  brush  on  the  ridge  above  me.  The 
next  second  my  hand  struck  my  eye-glasses,  and 
they  went  spinning  into  the  brush,  lost  forever,  and 
I  was  stricken  blind.  Thereafter  I  dived  and  hopped 
like  a  frog  through  the  brush  and  water,  until  I  came 
out  beyond  that  yellow- jacket  barrage.    I  never  saw 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  181 

that  bear  again.  Probably  he  laughed  himself  to 
death. 

The  blackbear  is  undoubtedly  leather-lined,  for 
he  will  dig  up  and  eat  the  bulbs  of  the  jack-in-the- 
pulpit,  which  affect  a  human  tongue  —  I  speak  from 
knowledge  —  like  a  mixture  of  nitric  acid  and 
powdered  glass.  Moreover,  he  is  the  only  animal 
which  can  swallow  the  tight-rolled  green  cigars  of 
the  skunk-cabbage  in  the  early  spring.  An  entry  in 
my  nature-notes  reads  as  follows : — 

"Only  a  fool  or  a  bear  would  taste  skunk-cabbage." 

My  lips  were  blistered  and  my  tongue  swollen 
when  I  wrote  it.  The  fact  that  the  blackbear  and  the 
blackcat  or  fisher  are  the  only  two  mammals  which 
can  eat  Old  Man  Quill-Pig,  alias  porcupine,  and 
swallow  his  quills,  confirms  my  belief  as  to  the  bear's 
lining.  The  dog,  the  lynx,  the  wild  cat,  and  the 
wolf  have  all  tried  —  and  died. 

Last  spring,  in  northern  Pennsylvania  I  found 
myself  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  by  the  side  of  one 
of  those  trembling  bogs  locally  known  as  bear- 
sloughs.  There  I  had  highly  resolved  to  find  the  nest 
of  a  nearby  Nashville  warbler,  which  kept  singing  its 
song,  which  begins  like  a  black-and-white  warbler 
and  ends  like  a  chipping  sparrow.  I  did  not  suppose 
that  there  was  a  bear  within  fifty  miles  of  me. 
Suddenly  I  came  upon  a  large,  quaking-aspen  tree 
set  back  in  the  woods  by  the  side  of  the  bog.  Its 
smooth  bark  was  furrowed  by  a  score  of  deep  scratches 
and  ridges  about  five  feet  from  the  ground,  while 
above  them  the  tree  had  apparently  been  repeatedly 


182  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

chewed.  I  recognized  it  as  a  bear-tree.  In  the  spring 
and  well  through  the  summer  certain  trees  are 
selected  by  all  the  he-bears  of  a  territory  as  a  sign- 
post whereon  they  carve  messages  for  friend  and  foe. 
No  male  bear  of  any  real  bearhood  would  think  of 
passing  such  a  tree  without  cutting  his  initials  wide, 
deep,  and  high,  for  all  the  world  to  see. 

The  first  flurries  of  snow  mean  bed-time  for 
Bruin.  He  is  not  afraid  of  the  cold,  for  he  wears  a 
coat  of  fur  four  inches  thick  over  a  waistcoat  of  fat 
of  the  same  thickness.  He  has  found,  however,  that 
rent  is  cheaper  than  board.  Unless  there  comes  some 
great  acorn  year,  when  the  oak  trees  are  covered  with 
nuts,  he  goes  to  bed  when  the  snow  flies.  One  of  the 
rarest  adventures  in  wood-craft  is  the  finding  of  a 
bear-hole  where  Bruin  sleeps  rolled  up  in  a  big, 
black  ball  until  spring.  It  is  always  selected  and  con- 
cealed with  the  utmost  care,  for  the  blackbear  takes 
no  chances  of  being  attacked  in  his  sleep.  The  last 
bear -hole  of  which  I  have  heard  was  not  far  from 
home.  Two  friends  of  mine  were  shooting  in  the 
Pocono  Mountains  with  a  dog,  about  the  middle  of 
November,  1914.  Suddenly  the  dog  started  up  a 
blackbear  on  a  wooded  slope.  After  running  a  short 
distance,  the  bear  turned  and  popped  into  a  hole 
under  an  overhanging  bank.  Almost  immediately 
he  started  to  come  out  again,  growling  savagely. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  my  friends  shot  him.  Then 
they  explored  the  hole  which  he  was  preparing  for 
his  winter-quarters.  It  was  beautifully  constructed. 
The    entrance    was    under    an    overhanging    bank, 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  183 

shielded  by  bushes,  and  it  seemed  unbelievable  that 
so  large  an  animal  could  have  forced  his  shoulders 
through  so  small  a  hole.  The  burrow  was  jug-shaped, 
spreading  out  inside  and  sloping  up,  while  a  dry 
shelf  had  been  dug  out  in  the  bank.  This  was  covered 
with  layers  of  dry  leaves  and  a  big  blanket  of  withered 
grass.  In  the  top  of  the  bank  a  tiny  hole  had  been 
dug,  which  opened  out  in  some  thick  bushes  and  was 
probably  an  air-hole.  Just  outside  the  entrance,  a 
bear  had  piled  an  armful  of  dry  sticks,  evidently 
intending,  when  he  had  finally  entered  the  hole,  to 
pull  them  over  the  entrance  and  entirely  hide  it. 
The  bear  itself  turned  out  to  be  a  young  one.  A 
veteran  would  have  died  fighting  before  giving  up 
the  secret  of  his  winter  castle. 

The  opal  water  was  all  glimmering  green  and  gold 
and  crimson,  as  it  whirled  under  overhanging  boughs 
aflame  with  the  fires  of  fall.  The  air  tasted  of  frost, 
and  had  the  color  of  pale  gold.  Around  sudden 
curves,  through  twisted  channels,  and  down  gleam- 
ing vistas,  our  canoe  followed  the  crooked  stream  as 
it  ran  through  the  pine-barrens.  The  woods  on  either 
side  were  glories  of  color.  There  was  the  scarlet  of 
the  mountain  sumac,  with  its  winged  leaves,  and  the 
deep  purple  of  the  star-leaved  sweet-gum.  Sassafras 
trees  were  lemon-yellow  or  wine-red.  The  persim- 
mon was  the  color  of  gold,  while  the  poison  sumac, 
with  its  death-pale  bark,  and  venomous  leaves  up- 
curled  as  if  ready  to  sting,  flaunted  the  regal  red- 
and-yellow  of  Spain. 


184  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

At  last,  we  beached  our  canoe  in  a  little  grove  and 
landed  for  lunch.  By  the  edge  of  the  smoky,  golden 
cedar-water,  in  the  pure  white  sand,  was  a  deep 
footprint,  like  that  made  by  a  baby 's  bare  foot  with 
a  pointed  heel.  I  recognized  the  hand  and  seal  of 
Lotor,  the  Washer,  who  believes  firmly  in  that  old 
proverb  about  cleanliness.  That  is  about  as  near, 
however,  as  Lotor  ever  gets  to  godliness.  He  is  the 
grizzled-gray  raccoon,  who  wears  a  black  mask  on 
his  funny,  foxy  face,  and  has  a  ringed  tail  shaped  like 
a  baton,  and  sets  his  hind  feet  flat,  like  his  second- 
cousin  the  bear,  while  his  menu-card  covers  almost  as 
wide  a  range.  Whatever  he  eats  —  frogs,  crawfish, 
chicken,  and  even  fresh  eggs  and  snakes  —  he  always 
washes.  Two,  three,  and  even  four  times,  he  rinses 
and  rubs  his  food  if  he  can  find  water. 

That  footprint  in  the  sand  carried  me  back  more 
years  than  I  like  to  count.  It  was  on  the  same  kind 
of  fall  day  that  I  first  entered  the  fastnesses  of  Rolf e  's 
Woods.  First  there  came  Little  Woods,  close  at 
home,  where  one  could  play  after  school,  and  where 
the  spotted  leaves  of  the  adder  's-tongue  grew  every- 
where. Then  came  Big  Woods,  which  required  a 
full  Saturday  afternoon  to  do  it  justice.  It  was  there 
that  I  accumulated  by  degrees  the  twenty-two 
spotted  turtles,  the  five  young  gray  squirrels,  and  the 
three  garter-snakes,  which  gladdened  my  home. 

Far  beyond  Big  Woods  was  a  wilderness  of  swamps 
and  thickets  known  to  us  as  Rolfe  's  Woods.  This  was 
only  to  be  visited  in  company  with  some  of  the  big 
boys  and  on  a  full  holiday.    That  day,  Boots  Lock- 


LOTOR.   THE   COON 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  185 

wood  and  Buck  Thompson,  patriarchs  who  must 
have  been  all  of  fourteen  years  old,  were  planning 
to  visit  these  woods.  Four  of  us  little  chaps  tagged 
along  until  it  was  too  late  to  send  us  back.  We 
found  that  the  perils  of  the  place  had  not  been  over- 
stated. In  a  dark  thicket  Boots  showed  us  wolf- 
tracks.  At  least  he  said  they  were,  and  he  ought 
to  have  known,  for  he  had  read  "Frank  in  the 
Woods,"  "The  Gorilla-Hunters,"  and  other  standard 
authorities  on  such  subjects.  Farther  on  we  heard  a 
squalling  note,  which  Buck  at  once  recognized  as 
the  scream  of  a  panther.  Boots  confirmed  his 
diagnosis,  and  showed  the  reckless  bravery  of  his 
nature  by  laughing  so  heartily  at  our  scared  faces 
that  he  had  to  lean  against  a  tree  for  some  time 
before  he  could  go  on.  In  later  years  I  have  heard 
the  same  note  made  by  a  blue  jay,  a  curious  coinci- 
dence which  should  have  the  attention  of  some  of  our 
prominent  naturalists. 

Finally,  we  came  to  a  little  clearing  with  a  vast 
oak-tree  in  the  centre.  As  we  neared  it,  suddenly 
Buck  gave  a  yell  and  pointed  overhead.  There  on  a 
hollow  dead  limb  crouched  a  strange  beast.  It  was 
gray  in  color,  with  a  black-masked  face,  and  was 
ten  times  larger  than  any  gray  squirrel,  the  wildest 
animal  which  we  had  met  personally.  There  was  a 
hasty  and  whispered  consultation  between  the  two 
leaders,  after  which  Buck  announced  that  the  stran- 
ger was  none  other  than  a  Canada  lynx,  according  to 
him  an  animal  of  almost  supernatural  ferocity  and 
cunning.    Furthermore,  he  stated  that  he,  assisted 


186  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

by  Boots,  intended  to  climb  the  tree  and  attack  said 
lynx  with  a  club.  Our  part  was  to  encircle  the  tree 
and  help  Boots  if  the  lynx  elected  to  fight  on  land 
instead  of  aloft.  If  so  be  that  he  sprang  on  any  one 
of  us,  the  rest  were  to  attack  him  instantly,  before 
he  had  time  to  lap  the  blood  of  his  victim  —  a 
distressing  habit  which  Buck  advised  us  was  charac- 
teristic of  all  Canada  lynxes. 

This  masterly  plan  was  somewhat  marred  by  the 
actions  of  Robbie  Crane.  Robbie  was  of  a  gentle 
nature,  and  one  whose  manners  and  ideals  were  far 
superior  to  the  rough  boys  with  whom  he  occasion- 
ally consorted.  Mrs.  Crane  said  so  herself.  After 
reflecting  a  moment  on  the  lynx's  unrestrained  and 
sanguinary  traits,  he  suddenly  disappeared  down  the 
back-track  with  loud  sobbings,  and  never  stopped 
running  until  he  reached  home  an  hour  later.  There- 
after our  names  were  stricken  from  Robbie's  calling- 
list  by  Mrs.  Crane. 

As  Buck,  boosted  by  Boots,  started  up  the  tree, 
the  perfidious  lynx  disappeared  in  an  unsuspected 
hole  beneath  a  branch,  from  which  he  refused  to  come 
out  in  spite  of  all  that  Buck  and  Boots  could  do. 
One  member,  at  least,  of  that  hunting-party  was 
immensely  relieved  by  his  unexpected  retreat.  It 
was  many  years  later  before  I  learned  that  even  such 
masters  of  woodcraft  as  Buck  and  Boots  could  be 
mistaken,  and  that  the  Canada  lynx  was  really  a 
Connecticut  coon. 

It  was  not  until  recently  that  I  ever  met  Lotor  by 
daylight.    Three  years  ago  I  was  walking  down  a 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  187 

hillside  after  a  sudden  November  snowstorm.  My 
way  led  past  two  gray-squirrel  nests,  well  thatched 
and  chinked  with  the  leaves  by  which  they  can 
always  be  told  from  crows'  nests.  From  one  of  them 
I  saw  peering  down  at  me  the  funny  face  of  a  coon. 
When  I  pounded  on  the  other  tree,  another  coon 
stared  sleepily  down  at  me.  Probably  the  unexpected 
snowstorm  had  sent  them  both  to  bed  in  the  first 
lodgings  which  they  could  find;  or  it  may  be  that 
they  had  decided  to  try  the  open-air  sleeping-rooms 
of  the  squirrels  rather  than  the  hollow-tree  houses  in 
which  the  coon  family  usually  spend  their  winters. 

Sometimes  at  night  you  may  hear  near  the  edge  of 
the  woods  a  plaintive,  tremulous  call  floating  from 
out  of  the  dark  trees — "Whoo-oo-oo-oo,  whoo-oo- 
oo-oo. "  It  is  one  of  the  night-notes  of  the  coon.  It 
sounds  almost  like  the  wail  of  the  little  screech-owl, 
save  that  there  is  a  certain  animal  quality  to  the 
note.  Moreover,  the  screech-owl  will  always  answer, 
when  one  imitates  the  call,  and  will  generally  come 
floating  over  on  noiseless  wings  to  investigate. 
The  coon,  however,  instantly  detects  the  imitation 
and  calls  no  more  that  night. 

Unlike  the  bears,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coon  and  all  the 
little  coons,  averaging  from  three  to  six,  hibernate 
together  soon  after  the  first  snowstorm  of  the  year. 
One  of  the  few  legends  of  the  long-lost  Connecticut 
Indians  which  I  can  remember  is  that  of  an  old 
Indian  hunter,  who  would  appear  on  my  great- 
grandfather's farm  in  the  depths  of  winter  and, 
after  obtaining  permission,  would  go  unerringly  to 


188  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

one  or  more  coon-trees,  which  he  would  locate  by 
signs  unknown  to  any  white  hunter.  In  each  tree  he 
would  find  from  four  to  six  fat  coons,  whose  fur  and 
flesh  he  would  exchange  for  gunpowder,  tobacco, 
hard  cider,  and  other  necessities  of  life. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coon  are  good  parents.  They  keep 
their  children  with  them  until  the  arrival  of  a  new 
family,  which  occurs  with  commendable  regularity 
every  spring.  A  friend  of  mine  once  saw  a  young  coon 
fall  into  the  water  from  its  tree  in  the  depths  of  a 
swamp.  At  the  splash,  the  mother  coon  came  out 
of  the  den,  forty  feet  up  the  trunk,  and  climbed  down 
to  help.  Master  Coon,  wet,  shaken,  and  miserable, 
managed  to  get  back  to  the  tree-trunk  and  clung 
there  whimpering.  Mother  Coon  gripped  him  by 
the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  marched  him  up  the  tree 
to  the  den,  giving  him  a  gentle  nip  whenever  he 
stopped  to  cry. 

In  spite  of  his  funny  face  and  playful  ways,  Mr. 
Coon  is  a  cheerful,  desperate,  scientific  fighter.  In 
a  fair  fight,  or  an  unfair  one  for  that  matter,  he  will 
best  a  dog  double  his  size,  and  he  fears  no  living 
animal  of  his  own  weight,  save  only  that  versatile 
weasel,  the  blackcat.  I  became  convinced  of  this  one 
dark  November  morning  many  years  ago,  when  I 
foolishly  used  to  kill  animals  instead  of  making 
friends  of  them.  All  night  long,  with  a  pack  of  alleged 
coon  dogs,  we  had  hunted  invisible  and  elusive 
coons  through  thick  woods.  I  had  scratched  myself 
all  over  with  greenbrier,  and,  while  running  through 
the  dark,  had  plunged  head  first  into  the  coldest 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  189 

known  brook  on  the  continent.  Four  separate  times 
I  had  been  persuaded  by  false  and  flattering  words 
to  climb  slippery  trees  after  imaginary  coons,  with  a 
lantern  fastened  round  my  neck. 

This  time  my  friends  assured  me  there  could  be  no 
mistake.  Both  Grip  and  Gyp,  the  experts  of  the 
pack,  had  their  fore-paws  against  an  enormous 
tulip  tree  which  stood  apart  from  all  others.  In  order 
that  there  might  be  no  possible  mistake,  black  Uncle 
Zeke,  the  leader  of  the  hunt,  who  knew  most  of  the 
coons  in  those  woods  by  their  first  names,  agreed  to 
"shine"  this  particular  coon.  Lighting  a  lantern,  he 
held  it  behind  his  head,  staring  fixedly  up  into  the 
tree  as  he  did  so.  Sure  enough,  in  a  minute,  far  up 
along  the  branches  gleamed  two  green  spots.  Those 
were  the  eyes  of  the  coon,  staring  down  at  the  light. 
It  was  impossible  to  climb  this  tree,  so  we  built  a  fire 
and  waited  for  daylight. 

Dawn  found  us  regarding  a  monster  coon  crouched 
in  the  branches  some  forty  or  fifty  feet  up.  Uncle 
Zeke  produced  a  cherished  shot-gun.  The  barrel  had 
once  burst,  by  reason  of  the  muzzle  being  accident- 
ally plugged  with  mud,  and  had  been  thereafter  cut 
down,  so  that  it  was  less  than  a  foot  in  length.  In 
spite  of  its  misfortune,  Uncle  Zeke  assured  us  that 
it  was  still  a  wonderful  shooter.  We  scattered  and 
gave  him  a  free  field.  In  a  properly  conducted  coon- 
hunt,  a  coon,  like  a  fox,  must  be  killed  by  dogs  or 
not  at  all.  Uncle  Zeke  told  us  that  this  one,  as  soon 
as  he  heard  the  shot,  although  uninjured,  would 
come  down,  like  Davy  Crockett's  coon. 


190  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Sure  enough,  when  the  shot  cut  through  the 
branches  well  above  the  animal,  he  started  slowly 
down  the  trunk,  head-foremost,  like  a  squirrel,  and 
never  stopped  until  he  reached  a  branch  some  twenty 
feet  above  the  yelping  pack.  Then,  with  hardly  a 
pause,  he  launched  himself  right  into  their  midst. 
As  he  came  through  the  air,  we  could  see  him  slash- 
ing with  his  claws,  evidently  limbering  up.  He  struck 
the  ground,  only  to  disappear  in  a  wave  of  dogs. 
In  a  minute  he  fought  himself  clear,  and  managed  to 
get  his  back  against  the  tree.  Then  followed  a  great 
exhibition  of  scientific  fighting.  The  coon  was 
perfectly  balanced  on  all  four  feet,  and  did  wonder- 
ful execution  with  his  flexible  fore-paws,  armed  with 
sharp,  curved  claws.  He  went  through  that  mongrel 
pack  like  a  light-weight  champion  in  a  street  fight. 
Ducking,  side-stepping,  slashing  and  biting  fiercely 
in  the  clinches,  he  broke  entirely  through  the  circle, 
and  started  off  at  a  brisk  trot  toward  the  thick  woods. 
The  pack  followed  after  him,  baying  ferociously, 
but  doing  nothing  more.  Not  one  of  them  would 
venture  again  into  close  quarters.  Though  we  came 
back  empty-handed,  not  even  Uncle  Zeke  grudged 
that  coon  his  life. 

The  motto  of  the  next  sleeper  is,  "Don't  hurry, 
others  will. "  If  you  meet  in  your  wanderings  a  black- 
and-white  animal  wearing  a  pointed  nose,  a  bushy 
tail,  and  an  air  of  justified  confidence,  avoid  any  al- 
tercation with  him.  The  skunk  discovered  the  secret 
of  the  gas-attack  a  million  years  before  the  Boche. 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  191, 

He  is  one  of  the  best  friends  of  the  farmer  —  and  the 
worst  treated.  Given  a  fair  chance,  every  week  he 
will  eat  several  times  his  weight  in  mice  and  insects. 
Moreover,  with  the  muskrat  he  contributes  divers 
furs  to  the  market,  whose  high-sounding  names 
disguise  their  lowly  origin.  During  the  coldest  part 
of  the  winter  he  retires  to  his  burrow  and  sleeps 
fitfully.  He  is  the  last  to  go  to  bed  and  the  first  to 
get  up ;  and  on  any  warm  day  in  late  winter  you  may 
see  his  close-set,  alternate,  stitch-like  tracks  in  the 
snow.  The  black-and-white  banner  of  skunk-kind  is 
a  huge  bushy  resplendent  tail,  sometimes  as  wide  as 
it  is  long.  At  the  very  tip  is  set  a  tuft  like  the  white 
plume  of  Henry  of  Navarre.  When  it  stands  straight 
up,  the  battle  is  on,  and  wise  wild-folk  remove 
themselves  elsewhere  with  exceeding  swiftness.  As 
for  the  simple  —  they  wish  they  had. 

The  armament  of  this  Seventh  Sleeper  is  simple 
but  effective.  It  consists  of  two  scent  glands  located 
near  the  base  of  the  tail,  which  empty  into  a  movable 
duct  or  pipe  which  can  be  protruded  some  distance. 
Through  this  duct,  by  means  of  large  contractile 
muscles,  a  stream  of  liquid  musk  can  be  propelled 
with  incredible  accuracy,  and  with  a  range  of  from 
six  to  ten  feet.  Moreover  the  skunk's  accurate 
breech-loading  and  repeating  weapon  has  one  de- 
vice not  yet  found  in  any  man-made  artillery.  Each 
gland,  besides  the  hole  for  long-range  purposes,  is 
pierced  with  a  circle  of  smaller  holes  through  which 
the  deadly  gas  can  be  sprayed  in  a  cloud  for  work  at 
close  quarters.   The  skunk's  battery  can  be  operated 


192  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

over  the  bow  or  from  port  or  starboard,  but  rarely 
astern. 

The  liquid  musk  itself  is  a  clear,  golden-yellow  fluid 
full  of  little  bubbles  of  the  devastating  gas,  and  curi- 
ously enough  is  almost  identical  in  appearance  with 
the  venom  of  the  rattlesnake.  As  to  its  odor,  it  has 
been  described  feelingly  as  a  mixture  of  perfume- 
musk,  essence  of  garlic,  burning  sulphur,  and  sewer- 
gas,  raised  to  the  thousandth  power.  Its  effect  is  very 
much  like  that  produced  by  the  fumes  of  ammonia, 
another  animal  product,  or  the  mustard-gas  of  mod- 
ern warfare.  It  may  cause  blindness,  convulsions, 
and  such  constriction  and  congestion  of  the  breath- 
ing passages  as  even  to  bring  about  death.  Some 
individuals  and  animals,  however,  seem  to  be  more  or 
less  immune  to  the  effects  of  this  secretion.  I  remem- 
ber once  attending  by  invitation  a  possum  hunt 
conducted  by  a  number  of  noted  possumists  of  color. 
We  were  accompanied  by  a  bevy  of  miscellaneous 
dogs.  The  possums  were  generally  found  wandering 
here  and  there  among  the  thickets,  or  located  in  low 
persimmon  trees.  Every  now  and  then  one  of  the 
dogs  would  bring  to  bay  a  strolling  skunk.  As  the 
skins  had  a  considerable  market  value,  these  skunks 
were  regarded  as  the  special  prizes  of  the  chase.  The 
hunters  dispatched  them  by  a  quick  blow  across  the 
back  which  broke  the  spine.  Such  a  blow  paralyzed 
the  muscles  and  effectually  prevented  any  further 
artillery  practice  on  the  part  of  the  skunk  which 
received  it.  Before  it  could  be  delivered,  both  the 
hunter  and  the  dog  were  usually  exposed  to  an  un- 


THE  SEVENTH  SLEEPER  —  THE  SKUNK 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  193 

erring  barrage,  which  however  seemed  to  cause  them 
no  especial  inconvenience.  Before  long  every  hunter, 
except  myself,  had  one  or  more  skunks  tucked 
away  in  his  pockets. 

It  was  a  long,  strong  night.  Before  it  was  over  I 
was  in  some  doubt  as  to  whether  I  had  been  attend- 
ing a  possum  hunt  or  had  taken  part  in  a  skunk 
chase.  My  family  had  no  doubt  whatever  on  the  sub- 
ject when  I  reached  home  the  next  morning.  I  was 
earnestly  invited  to  tarry  in  the  wilderness  until 
such  time  as  I  could  obtain  a  complete  change  of 
raiment.  Thereafter  I  tried  to  give  my  hunting 
clothes  away  to  the  worthy  poor.  Said  poor,  however, 
would  have  none  of  them,  and  they  repose  in  a  lonely 
grave  in  a  Philadelphia  back-yard  even  unto  this 
day. 

I  saw  him  last  fall  sitting  up  like  a  little  post  in 
the  Half-Moon  Lot  where  the  blind  blue  gentian 
grows.  Every  once  in  a  while  he  would  drop  down 
and  begin  to  nibble  again,  only  to  stop  and  sit  up 
stiff  and  straight  on  sentry  duty.  For  the  gray, 
grizzled  woodchuck  is  as  wary  as  he  is  fat.  Watch- 
fulness is  the  price  of  his  life. 

Once  I  spied  him  far  out  in  a  clover-patch,  nibbling 
away  at  the  pink  sweet  blossoms  as  I  passed  along 
the  road.  At  the  bar- way  a  chipmunk  leaped  into  the 
wall  with  a  sharp  squeak.  Without  even  stopping  to 
raise  his  head,  Mr.  Woodchuck  scuttled  through 
the  clover,  and  dived  into  his  burrow.  It  was  a  bit 
of  animal  team-work  such  as  takes  place  when  a 


194  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

fox  or  a  deer  uses  a  far-away  crow  or  a  jay  as  a  picket, 
and  dashes  away  at  its  warning  of  the  coming  of  an 
enemy. 

Soon  afterwards  I  was  on  my  way  to  a  spring  down 
in  the  pasture.  As  I  passed  near  a  stone  wall  half 
hidden  in  a  tangle  of  chokecherries  and  bittersweet, 
there  was  a  piercing  whistle,  followed  by  a  scrambling 
and  a  scuffling  as  the  woodchuck  dived  down  among 
the  stones,  and  I  understood  why,  below  Mason  and 
Dixon's  Line,  he  is  always  called  the  "whistlepig. " 
It  is  a  good  name,  for  he  whistles,  and  he  is  certainly 
like  a  little  pig  in  that  he  eats  and  eats  and  eats 
until  he  seems  mostly  quivering  paunch.  According 
to  the  farmers  of  Connecticut,  he  eats  to  get  strength 
enough  to  dig,  and  then  digs  to  get  an  appetite  to 
eat,  and  so  passes  his  life  in  a  vicious  circle  of  eating 
and  digging  and  digging  and  eating.  In  spite  of  his 
unwieldy  weight,  the  woodchuck  is  a  bitter,  brave 
fighter  when  fight  he  must. 

I  once  watched  a  bull-terrier  named  Paddy  tackle 
a  big  chuck  near  a  shallow  brook.  Round  and  round 
the  dog  circled,  trying  for  the  fatal  throat-hold. 
Round  and  round  whirled  the  brave  old  chuck, 
chattering  with  his  great  chisel-like  teeth,  which 
could  bite  through  dog-hide  and  dog-flesh  and  bone 
just  as  easily  as  they  gnawed  through  stolen  apples. 
Every  once  in  a  while  Paddy  would  clinch,  but  the 
woodchuck  saved  himself  every  time  by  hunching 
his  neck  down  between  his  round  shoulders  and 
punishing  the  dog  so  terribly  with  his  sharp  teeth 
that  the  latter  would  at  last  retreat,  yelping  with 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  195 

pain.  They  would  whirl  in  circles,  and  roll  over  and 
over  in  the  clinches;  but  always  the  old  chuck  would 
be  found  with  his  squat  figure  on  its  legs  at  the  end 
of  each  round.  His  thick  grizzled  coat  was  more  of 
a  protection,  too,  than  the  thin  skin  of  the  short- 
haired  terrier. 

At  last  both  of  them  were  tired  out.  As  if  by  agree- 
ment, both  drew  back  and  lay  down,  panting  and 
watching  each  other's  every  movement  like  two 
boxers.  Finally,  the  woodchuck,  who  was  nearer  the 
brook,  began  to  drag  himself  along  until  he  reached 
the  edge  of  the  water.  Then  he  lowered  his  head, 
still  watching  his  opponent,  and  sucked  in  deep, 
cool,  satisfying  drinks. 

It  was  too  much  for  Paddy.  He  started  for  the 
brook  also.  The  old  chuck  stopped  drinking,  and 
pulled  himself  together;  but  Paddy  wanted  water, 
not  blood.  In  a  moment  he  had  his  nose  in  the 
brook.  There  the  two  lay,  not  a  couple  of  yards 
apart,  and  drank  until  they  could  drink  no  more. 

The  whistlepig  was  the  first  out.  Slowly  and 
watchfully  he  waddled  away  from  the  brook  and 
toward  the  stone  wall,  that  refuge  of  all  hunted  little 
animals.  Paddy  gave  a  fierce  growl,  but  the  water 
tasted  too  good,  and  he  stayed  for  another  long 
drink.  Then  he  darted  out>  after  the  woodchuck, 
barking  ferociously  all  the  time,  as  if  he  could  hardly 
wait  to  begin  the  battle  again.  The  woodchuck 
watched  him  steadily,  ready  to  stop  and  fight  at  any 
moment. 

Somehow,   although  Paddy  barked  and  growled 


196  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  rushed  at  his  retreating  opponent  with  exceeding 
fierceness,  there  were  always  a  few  yards  between 
them,  until  Mr.  Chuck  disappeared  at  last  down  be- 
tween two  great  stones  in  the  wall.  Then  indeed 
Paddy  dashed  in,  and  growled,  and  tore  up  the  turf, 
and  stuck  his  nose  deep  down  between  the  stones, 
and  told  the  world  all  the  terrible  things  he  would 
do  to  that  woodchuck  if  he  could  only  catch  him. 
From  the  bowels  of  the  old  wall,  between  barks, 
sounded  now  and  then  the  muffled  but  defiant 
whistle  of  the  unconquered  whistlepig. 

Finally,  Paddy,  with  an  air  of  having  done  all 
that  could  be  expected,  gave  some  fierce  farewell 
barks  and  trotted  off  toward  the  farmhouse. 

Some  people  claim  to  have  dug  woodchucks  out 
of  their  holes.  Personally  I  believe  that  it  is  about  as 
easy  to  dig  a  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole  as  it  is  to 
catch  a  squirrel  in  its  tree.  They  have  a  network  of 
holes,  and  have  a  habit  of  starting  digging  on  their 
own  account  when  molested,  and  sealing  up  the  new 
hole  after  them,  so  that  they  leave  no  trace. 

Once,  in  company  with  another  amateur  natural- 
ist, we  tried  to  dig  an  old  chuck  out  of  its  burrow. 
After  first  stopping  up  all  the  spare  holes  we  could 
find,  the  naturalist  dug  and  dug  and  dug  and  dug. 
Then  we  enlisted  two  other  men,  and  they  dug  and 
dug  and  dug.  After  a  while  we  came  to  a  mass  of 
great  boulders.  Then  we  pressed  into  service  a  yoke 
of  oxen,  and  they  tugged  and  tugged  and  tugged. 
Said  digging  and  tugging  and  tugging  and  digging 
lasted  the  half  of  a  long  summer  day.    All  together, 


THE   WHISTLEPIG 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  197 

it  was  an  exceeding  great  digging  —  but  we  never 
got  that  woodchuck. 

In  September  and  October  the  woodchuck  devotes 
all  of  his  time  to  eating.  The  consequence  is  that,  by 
the  time  the  first  frost  comes,  he  is  a  big  gray  bag 
of  fat.  Mr.  Woodchuck  does  not  believe  in  storing 
up  food  in  his  burrow,  like  the  chipmunk.  He  prefers 
to  be  the  storehouse.  Soon  after  the  first  frost  he 
disappears  in  his  hole,  and  far  down  underground, 
at  the  end  of  a  network  of  intersecting  passages, 
rolls  himself  up  in  a  round,  warm  ball,  and  sleeps 
until  spring. 

According  to  the  legend,  on  Candlemas,  or  Ground- 
Hog  Day,  —  which  comes  on  February  second, —  he 
peeps  out,  and,  if  he  can  see  his  shadow,  goes  in 
again  for  six  more  weeks  of  cold  weather.  So  far  this 
day  has  not  yet  been  made  a  legal  holiday.  It  prob- 
ably will  be  some  time,  along  with  Columbus  Day, 
Labor  Day,  and  other  equally  important  days.  I 
will  not  vouch  for  the  fact  that  the  weather  depends 
on  the  shadow;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  wood- 
chuck does  come  out  of  his  burrow  in  a  February 
thaw  and  looks  around,  as  his  tracks  prove;  but  he  is 
not  interested  in  his  shadow.  No  indeed!  What  he 
comes  out  for  is  to  look  for  the  future  Mrs.  Wood- 
chuck, and  when  he  finds  her  he  goes  in  again. 

Sometimes  you  read  in  nature-books  that  the 
woodchuck  is  good  to  eat.  Don't  believe  it.  I 
ought  to  know.  I  ate  one  once.  Anyone  is  welcome 
to  my  share  of  the  world's  supply  of  woodchucks. 
When  I  camped  out  as  a  boy,  we  had  to  eat  every- 


198  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

thing  that  we  shot:  and  one  summer  I  ate  a  part  of 
a  woodchuck,  a  crow,  a  green  heron,  and  a  blue  jay. 
The  chuck  was  about  in  the  crow's  class. 

We  humans  have  different  feelings  toward  the  dif- 
ferent Sleepers.  One  may  respect  the  bear,  and  have 
a  certain  tempered  regard  for  the  coon,  or  even  the 
skunk.  Everyone,  however,  loves  that  confiding, 
gentle  little  Sleeper,  the  striped  chipmunk  —  "Chip- 
py Nipmunk,"  as  certain  children  of  my  acquaint- 
ance have  named  him.  He  is  that  little  squirrel  who 
lives  in  the  ground  and  has  two  big  pockets  in  his 
cheeks.  Sometimes  in  the  fall  you  may  think  that  he 
has  the  mumps.  Really  it  is  only  acorns.  He  can 
carry  four  of  them  in  each  cheek.  Once  I  met  a  greedy 
chipmunk  who  had  his  pockets  so  full  of  nuts  that  he 
could  not  enter  his  own  burrow.  Although  he  tried 
with  his  head  sideways,  and  even  upside-down,  he 
could  not  get  in.  When  he  saw  me  coming,  he 
rapidly  removed  two  hickory  nuts  from  which  he  had 
nibbled  the  sharp  points  at  each  end,  and  popped 
into  his  hole,  leaving  the  nuts  high,  but  not  dry, 
outside.  When  I  carried  them  off,  he  stuck  his  head 
out  of  the  hole,  and  shouted,  "Thief!  Thief!"  after 
me  in  chipmunk  language,  so  loudly  that,  in  order 
not  to  be  arrested,  I  carried  them  back  again. 

Almost  the  first  wild  animal  of  my  acquaintance 
was  the  chipmunk.  During  one  of  my  very  early 
summers,  probably  the  fourth  or  fifth,  a  wave  of 
chipmunks  swept  over  the  old  farm  where  I  happened 
to  be.    They  swarmed  everywhere,  and  every  stone 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  199 

wall  seemed  to  be  alive  with  them.  It  was  probably 
one  of  the  rare  chipmunk  migrations,  which,  al- 
though denied  by  some  naturalists,  actually  do  occur. 

Chippy  usually  goes  to  bed  in  late  October,  and 
sleeps  until  late  March.  He  takes  with  him  a  light 
lunch  of  nuts  and  seeds,  in  case  he  may  wake  up  and 
be  hungry  during  the  long  night.  Moreover,  these 
come  in  very  handy  along  about  breakfast-time,  for 
when  he  gets  up  there  is  little  to  eat.  Then,  too,  he  is 
very  busy  during  those  early  spring  weeks.  In  the 
first  place,  he  has  to  sing  his  spring  song  for  hours. 
It  is  a  loud,  rolling  "  Chuck-a-chuck-a-chuck, "  al- 
most like  a  bird-song,  and  Chippy  is  very  proud  of  it. 
Then,  too,  he  has  to  find  a  suitable  Miss  Chipmunk 
and  persuade  her  to  become  Mrs.  Chipmunk,  all  of 
which  takes  a  great  deal  of  time.  So  the  nuts  which 
he  stores  up  are  probably  intended  rather  for  an 
early  breakfast  than  a  late  supper. 

An  Indian  writer  tells  how  the  boys  of  his  tribe 
used  to  take  advantage  of  the  chipmunk's  spring 
serenade.  The  first  warm  day  in  March  they  would 
all  start  out  armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  at 
the  nearest  chipmunk-hole  one  would  imitate  the 
loud  chirrup  of  the  chipmunk.  Instantly  every 
chipmunk  within  hearing  would  pop  out  of  his  hole 
and  join  the  chorus,  until  sometimes  as  many  as 
fifty  would  be  singing  at  the  same  time,  too  busily  to 
dodge  the  blunt  arrows  of  the  boy-hunters. 

Besides  his  song  the  chipmunk  has  another  high- 
pitched  note,  and  an  alarm-squeal  which  he  gives 
as  he  dives  into  his  burrow.    There  are  two  phases 


200  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

of  Eastern  chipmunks,  the  Northern  and  the  South- 
ern, besides  the  Oregon,  the  painted,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent golden  chipmunk  of  the  West.  All  of  them  have 
the  same  dear,  gentle  ways. 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  chipmunk  was  a  favorite  pet. 
Flying  squirrels  were  too  sleepy,  red  squirrels  too 
restless,  and  gray  squirrels  too  bitey  for  petting 
purposes.  Chippy  is  easily  tamed,  and  moreover 
does  not  have  to  be  kept  in  a  cage,  which  is  no  place 
for  any  wild  animal.  I  knew  one  once  who  used  to 
go  to  school  in  a  boy's  pocket  every  day;  and  he 
behaved  quite  as  well  as  the  boy,  which  is  not  saying 
much.  Sometimes  he  would  come  out  and  sit  on  the 
desk  beside  the  boy's  book,  so  as  to  help  him  over 
the  particularly  hard  places. 

The  chipmunk,  like  most  of  the  Sleepers,  has  a 
varied  diet.  He  eats  all  kinds  of  nuts  and  weed-seeds, 
and  also  has  a  pretty  taste  in  mushrooms.  It  was 
a  chipmunk  who  once  taught  me  the  difference 
between  a  good  and  a  bad  mushroom.  I  saw  him 
sitting  on  a  stump,  nibbling  what  seemed  to  be  a  red 
russula,  which  tastes  like  red  pepper  and  acts  like 
an  emetic  if  one  is  foolish  enough  to  swallow  much 
of  it.  When  I  came  near,  he  ran  away,  leaving  his 
lunch  behind.  On  tasting  the  mushroom  I  found  that, 
although  it  was  a  red  russula,  it  was  not  the  emetica, 
and  I  learned  to  recognize  the  delicious  alutacea. 

Sometimes,  sad  to  say,  Chippy  eats  forbidden 
food.  A  friend  of  mine  found  him  once  on  a  low 
limb,  nibbling  a  tiny,  green  grass-snake.  The  chip- 
munk had  eaten  about  half  of  the  snake,  when  he 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  201 

suddenly  stopped  and  let  the  remainder  drop,  and 
then  sat  and  reflected  for  a  full  minute.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  he  became  actively  ill,  and  after  losing 
all  of  that  fresh  snake-lunch,  scampered  away,  an 
emptier,  if  not  a  wiser,  chipmunk. 

In  spite  of  his  gentle  ways  Chippy  lives  in  a  world 
of  enemies.  Hawks,  snakes,  cats,  boys,  and  dogs, 
all  are  his  foes.  More  than  all  the  rest  put  together, 
however,  he  fears  the  devilish  red  weasel,  which 
runs  him  down  relentlessly  above  and  below  the 
ground  alike.  Only  in  the  water  has  the  chipmunk 
a  chance  to  escape.  Although  the  weasel  can  hold 
him  for  a  few  yards,  yet  in  a  long  swim  the  chipmunk 
will  draw  away  so  far  from  his  pursuer  that  he  will 
generally  escape.  Underground,  if  given  a  few  sec- 
onds' time,  he  also  escapes  by  a  method  known  to  a 
number  of  the  underground  folk.  Dashing  through 
a  series  of  the  main  burrows,  he  runs  into  a  side  gal- 
lery, and  instantly  walls  himself  in  so  neatly  that  his 
pursuer  rushes  past  without  suspecting  his  presence. 

For  many  years  one  of  the  out-of-door  problems  to 
which  I  was  unable  to  find  the  answer  was  how  a 
chipmunk  could  dig  a  burrow  and  leave  no  trace  of 
any  fresh  earth.  I  examined  scores  of  new  chipmunk- 
holes,  but  never  found  the  least  trace  of  fresh  earth 
near  the  entrance.  His  secret  is  to  start  at  the  other 
end.  This  sounds  like  a  joke,  but  it  is  exactly  what 
he  does.  He  will  run  a  shaft  for  many  feet,  coming 
up  in  some  convenient  thicket  or  beneath  the  slope 
of  an  overhanging  bank.  All  the  earth  will  be  taken 
out  through  the  first  hole,  which  is  then  plugged 


202  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

up.  This  accounts  for  the  heaps  of  fresh  earth  which 
I  have  frequently  seen  near  chipmunk  colonies,  but 
with  no  burrow  anywhere  in  sight. 

The  Band  was  on  the  march.  The  evening  before, 
at  story-time,  Sergeant  Henny-Penny  and  Corporal 
Alice-Palace  had  listened  spellbound  while  the 
Captain  told  them  of  the  adventures  of  trustful 
Chippy-Nipmunk  when  he  tried  to  get  change  for  a 
horse-chestnut  from  Mr.  G.  Squirrel,  who  it  seems 
was  of  a  grasping  and  over-reaching  disposition,  and 
how  Chippy  wrote  home  about  the  transaction 
signing  himself  "Butternutly  yours."  The  story 
had  made  such  a  sensation  that  the  flattered  Captain 
had  promised,  on  the  next  day,  which  was  a  half- 
holiday,  to  take  the  whole  Band  up  to  Chipmunk 
Hill,  where  old  Mr.  Prindle  had  named  and  tamed  a 
chipmunk  colony. 

Late  afternoon  found  them  plodding  up  the  grass- 
grown  road  which  led  to  the  lonely  little  house  on 
top  of  the  hill,  where  Mr.  Prindle  had  lived  since 
days  before  which  the  memory  of  the  Band  ran 
not.  They  found  the  old  man  seated  on  the  porch  in 
a  great  Boston  rocker,  and  glad  enough  to  see  them 
all.  The  Captain  introduced  them  in  due  form,  from 
First  Lieutenant  Trottie  down  to  Corporal  Alice- 
Palace. 

"  'T  ain't  everybody,"  said  Mr.  Prindle,  pulling 
Second  Lieutenant  Honey's  ear  reflectively,  "that 
would  climb  five  miles  up-hill  to  see  an  old  man. 
How  would  a  few  fried  cakes  and  some  cider  go?" 

There  was  an  instantaneous  vote  in  favor  of  this 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  203 

resolution,  in  which  Alice-Palace's  good-time  noise 
easily  soared  like  a  siren-whistle  above  all  the  other 
expressions  of  assent. 

"Be  careful  and  don't  swallow  the  holes,"  Mr. 
Prindle  warned  them  a  few  moments  later,  as  he 
brought  out  a  big  panful  of  brownish-red,  spicy 
fried  cakes  cooked  in  twisted  rings. 

The  Band  promised  to  use  every  precaution,  and 
there  was  an  adjournment  of  all  other  business  until 
the  pan  and  the  pitcher  were  alike  empty. 

"Are  your  chipmunks  still  alive?"  queried  the 
Captain,  as  they  all  sat  down  on  the  vast,  squatty- 
legged  settee  next  to  Mr.  Prindle 's  rocker. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  replied  the  latter,  "they've  been 
with  me  nigh  on  to  four  years  now. " 

Alice-Palace's  eyes  became  very  big. 

"Not  Chippy-Nipmunk?"she  whispered  to  the 
Captain. 

"Exactly,"  replied  that  official,  "and  then  some." 

Thereafter,  at  Mr.  Prindle 's  suggestion,  they  all 
sat  stony-still  and  mousy-quiet  while  he  made  a 
funny  little  hissing,  whistling  noise.  From  under  the 
porch  there  came  a  scurrying  rush,  and  the  two 
bright  eyes  of  a  big  striped  chipmunk  popped  up  over 
the  edge  of  the  porch-step.  A  minute  later,  from  two 
holes  in  a  near-by  bank,  two  other  chipmunks  dashed 
out.  They  all  had  ashy-gray  backs,  with  five  stripes 
of  such  dark  brown  as  to  look  almost  like  black. 
Their  tails  had  a  black,  white-tipped  fringe,  while 
the  gray  color  of  the  back  changed  into  clear  orange- 
brown  on  their  flanks  and  legs. 


204  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

"This  one  is  James,"  announced  Mr.  Prindle,  as 
the  first  chipmunk  hurried  across  the  porch  toward 
his  chair.  "His  full  name  is  James  William  Francis, " 
he  explained,  "after  a  second-cousin  of  mine  who 
looked  a  good  deal  like  him.  I  generally  call  him 
James  for  short.  The  other  two  are  Nip  and  Tuck, " 
he  went  on.  "Old  Bill  will  be  along  in  a  minute. 
You  see,"  he  continued,  "he's  an  old  bachelor  and 
lives  all  by  himself  quite  a  ways  off. " 

"What  about  James?"  inquired  Honey. 

"He's  been  a  widower,"  said  Mr.  Prindle,  sadly, 
"ever  since  his  wife  stayed  out  one  day  to  get  a  good 
look  at  a  hawk." 

As  he  spoke,  another  chipmunk  came  around  the 
end  of  the  porch  and  hastened  to  join  the  other  three. 

"Here's  Bill  now,"  announced  Mr.  Prindle. 

Then  the  old  man  reached  into  his  pocket  and  took 
out  a  handful  of  butternuts  and  gave  two  to  each  of 
the  Band. 

"Hold  one  in  your  closed  hand  and  the  other 
between  your  thumb  and  finger  where  they  can  see 
it,"  he  advised  them. 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  chorus  of  delighted 
squeals.  Each  chipmunk  had  run  up  and  taken  the 
nut  which  was  in  sight,  and  was  burrowing  and 
scrabbling  with  soft  little  paws  and  sniffling  little 
noses  into  four  sets  of  clenched  fingers,  in  an  attempt 
to  secure  the  other  hidden  nuts.  When  the  last  of 
them  had  disappeared,  looking  as  if  he  had  an  attack 
of  mumps,  the  Band  thanked  Mr.  Prindle  and 
started  for  home. 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  205 

"Butternutly  yours,"  quoted  Alice-Palace  as  they 
hurried  down  the  long  hill. 

Have  you  ever  dreamed  of  writing  a  wonderful 
poem,  and  then  waked  up  and  found  that  you  had 
forgotten  it;  or,  worse  still,  that  it  was  n't  wonderful 
at  all?  That  is  what  happened  to  me  the  other 
night.  All  that  was  left  of  the  lost  masterpiece  was 
the  following  alleged  verse: — 

After  dark  everybody's  house 

Belongs  to  the  little  brown  Flittermouse. 

I  admit  that  the  mystery  and  pathos  and  beauty 
which  that  verse  seemed  to  have  in  dreamland  have 
some  way  evaporated  in  daylight.  So  as  I  can't  give 
to  the  world  any  poetry  in  praise  of  my  friend  the 
Flittermouse,  I  must  do  what  I  can  for  him  in  prose. 
In  the  first  place,  his  everyday  name  is  Bat.  Our 
forebears  knew  him  as  the  flying  or  "flitter"  mouse. 
Probably,  too,  he  is  the  original  of  the  Brownie,  that 
ugly  brown  elf  that  used  to  flit  about  in  the  twilight. 

He  is  perhaps  the  best  equipped  of  all  of  our  mam- 
mals, for  he  flies  better  than  any  bird,  is  a  strong 
though  unwilling  swimmer,  and  is  also  fairly  active 
on  the  ground.  In  addition,  he  has  such  an  ex- 
quisite sense  of  feeling,  that  he  is  able  to  fly  at  full 
speed  in  the  dark,  steering  his  course  and  instantly 
avoiding  any  obstacle  by  the  mere  feel  of  the  air- 
currents.  In  fact,  the  bat's  whole  body,  including 
the  ribs  and  edges  of  its  wings,  may  be  said  to  be 
full  of  eyes.    These  are  highly  developed  nerve-end- 


206  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

ings,  which  are  so  sensitive  that  they  are  instantly 
aware  of  the  presence  of  any  body  met  in  flight,  by 
the  difference  in  the  air-pressure. 

As  early  as  1793  an  Italian  naturalist  found  that 
a  blinded  bat  could  fly  as  well  as  one  with  sight. 
They  were  able  to  avoid  all  parts  of  a  room,  and  even 
to  fly  through  silken  threads  stretched  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  leave  just  space  enough  for  them  to 
pass  with  their  wings  expanded.  When  the  threads 
were  placed  closer  together,  the  blind  bats  would 
contract  their  wings  in  order  to  pass  between  them 
without  touching. 

An  English  naturalist  put  wax  over  a  bat's  closed 
eyes  and  then  let  it  loose  in  a  room.  It  flew  under 
chairs,  of  which  there  were  twelve  in  the  room, 
without  touching  anything,  even  with  the  tips  of  its 
wings.  When  he  attempted  to  catch  it,  the  bat 
dodged;  nor  could  it  be  taken  even  when  resting,  as 
it  seemed  to  feel  with  its  wings  the  approach  of  the 
hand  stretched  out  to  seize  it. 

When  it  comes  to  flying,  the  bat  is  the  swallow  of 
the  night.  Sometimes  it  may  be  confused  with  a 
chimney-swift  at  twilight,  but  it  can  always  be  told 
by  its  dodging,  lonely  flight,  while  the  swifts  fly  in 
companies  and  without  zigzagging  through  the  air. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  even  the  swallow  or  the 
swiftest  of  the  hawks,  such  as  the  sharp-shinned  or 
the  duck  hawk,  perhaps  the  fastest  bird  that  flies, 
can  equal  the  speed  of  the  great  hoary  bat.  More- 
over, the  flight  of  the  bat  is  absolutely  silent.  He 
may  dart  and  turn  a  foot  away  from  you,  but  you 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  207 

will  hear  absolutely  nothing.  A  hoary  bat,  the  larg- 
est of  all  the  family,  has  been  seen  to  overtake 
and  fly  past  a  flock  of  migrating  swallows,  while 
a  red  bat  has  been  watched  carrying  four  young 
clinging  to  her,  which  together  weighed  more  than 
she  did,  and  yet  she  flew  and  hunted  and  captured 
insects  in  mid-air  as  usual.  There  is  no  bird  which 
can  give  such  an  exhibition  of  strong  flying.  The 
hoary  bat  has  even  been  found  on  the  Bermuda 
Islands  in  autumn  and  early  winter.  As  these  islands 
are  five  hundred  and  forty  storm-swept  miles  from 
the  nearest  land,  this  is  evidence  of  an  extraordi- 
narily high  grade  of  wing-power. 

When  it  comes  to  personal  habits,  bats  of  all  kinds 
are  perhaps  the  most  useful  mammals  that  we  have. 
No  American  bat  eats  anything  but  insects,  and  in- 
sects of  the  most  disagreeable  kind,  such  as  cock- 
roaches, mosquitoes,  and  June-bugs.  A  house-bat 
has  been  seen  to  eat  twenty-one  June-bugs  in  a  single 
night;  while  another  young  bat  would  eat  from 
thirty-four  to  thirty-seven  cockroaches  in  the  same 
time,  beginning  this  commendable  work  before  it  was 
two  months  old.  Moreover,  bats  do  not  bring  into 
houses  any  noxious  insects,  like  bedbugs  or  lice,  de- 
spite their  bad  reputation.  They  are  unfortunately 
afflicted  with  numerous  parasites,  but  none  of  them 
are  of  a  kind  to  attack  man.  All  bats  are  great 
drinkers,  and  twice  a  day  skim  over  the  nearest 
water,  drinking  copiously  on  the  wing.  Sometimes, 
where  trout  are  large  enough,  bats  fall  victims  to 
their  drinking  habits,  being  seized  on  the  wing  like 


208  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

huge  moths  by  leaping  trout,  as  they  approach  the 
water  to  drink. 

Bats  also  feed  twice  a  day  at  regular  periods,  once 
at  sundown  and  once  at  sunrise,  always  capturing 
and  eating  their  insect  food  on  the  wing.  Some  of 
them  have  a  curious  habit  of  using  a  pouch,  which  is 
made  of  the  membrane  stretched  between  their  hind 
legs,  as  a  kind  of  net  to  hold  the  captured  insect  until 
it  can  be  firmly  gripped  and  eaten.  In  this  same  pouch 
the  young  are  carried  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  and 
until  they  are  strong  enough  to  nurse.  After  that, 
like  young  jumping  mice,  they  cling  to  the  teats  of 
the  mother  bat,  and  are  carried  everywhere  in  this 
way.  When  they  get  too  large  to  be  so  conveyed  in 
comfort,  the  mother  bat  hangs  them  up  in  some 
secret  place  until  her  return. 

Moreover  a  mother  bat  is  just  as  devoted  to  her 
babies  as  any  other  mammal.  She  takes  entire 
charge  of  them,  with  never  any  help  from  the 
father  bat.  Young  bats  are  blind  at  birth,  but 
their  eyes  open  on  the  fifth  day,  and  on  the  thirteenth 
day  the  baby  bat  no  longer  clings  to  its  mother, 
but  roosts  beside  her.  The  bat  has  from  two  to  four 
young,  depending  on  the  species.  Most  young  bats 
can  fly  and  forage  for  themselves  when  they  are  about 
three  months  old,  although  the  silvery  bat  begins  to 
fly  when  it  is  three  weeks  old.    No  bat  makes  a  nest. 

Titian  Peale,  of  Philadelphia,  in  an  early  natural 
history,  tells  a  story  of  a  boy  who,  in  1823,  caught  a 
young  red  bat  and  took  it  home.  Three  hours  later, 
in  the  evening,  he  started  to  take  it  to  the  museum, 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  209 

carrying  it  in  his  hand.  As  he  passed  near  the  place 
where  it  was  caught,  the  mother  bat  appeared  and 
followed  the  boy  for  two  squares,  flying  around  him 
and  finally  lighting  on  his  breast,  until  the  boy 
allowed  her  to  take  charge  of  her  little  one. 

The  bat  has  but  few  enemies.  They  are  occasion- 
ally caught  by  owls,  probably  taken  unawares  or 
when  hanging  in  some  dark  tree.  In  fact,  virtually 
the  only  enemies  a  bat  has  are  fur-lice,  which  breed 
upon  them  in  enormous  quantities.  It  is  this  mis- 
fortune, and  the  fact  that  a  bat  has  a  strong  rank 
smell  like  that  of  a  skunk,  which  keep  it  from  being 
popular  as  a  pet. 

A  friend  of  mine  once,  however,  kept  a  little  brown 
bat,  which  had  been  drowned  out  from  a  tree  by  a 
thunder-storm,  for  a  long  time  under  a  sieve  as  a 
pet.  The  bat  became  tame  and  would  accept  food, 
and  it  was  most  interesting  to  see  the  deft,  speedy 
way  in  which  he  husked  millers  and  other  minute 
insects,  rejecting  their  wings,  skinning  their  bodies, 
and  devouring  the  flesh  only  after  it  had  been  pre- 
pared entirely  to  its  liking.  He  would  wash  himself 
with  his  tongue  and  his  paw,  like  a  cat,  using  the 
little  thumb-nail  at  the  bend  of  his  wing,  and 
stretching  the  rubbery  membrane  into  all  kinds  of 
shapes,  until  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  tear  it  in  his 
zeal  for  cleanliness. 

A  bat  always  alights  first  by  catching  the  little 
hooks  on  its  wings.  As  soon  as  it  has  a  firm  grip  with 
these,  it  at  once  turns  over,  head  downward,  and 
hangs  by  the  long,  recurved  nails  of  the  hind  feet, 


210  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  in  this  position  sleeps  through  the  daylight. 
It  sleeps  through  the  winter  in  the  top  of  some  warm 
steeple  or,  far  more  often  than  we  suspect,  in  dark 
corners  of  our  houses,  and  sometimes  in  hollow  trees 
and  deserted  buildings  and  caves.  Only  when 
caught  by  the  cold  does  the  bat  hibernate.  Often 
it  migrates  like  the  birds. 

One  of  the  strangest  things  about  the  flittermouse 
is  its  voice.  It  is  a  penetrating,  shrill  squeak,  so  high 
that  many  people  cannot  hear  it  at  all.  The  chirp 
of  a  sparrow  is  about  five  octaves  above  the  middle 
E  of  the  piano,  while  the  cry  of  the  bat  is  a  full  octave 
above  that.  In  England  there  is  a  saying  that  no 
person  more  than  forty  years  old  can  hear  the  cry 
of  a  bat.  This  is  founded  probably  on  the  fact  that 
the  ears  of  many  of  us,  especially  as  we  approach 
middle  age,  are  unable  to  distinguish  sounds  more 
than  four  octaves  above  middle  E.  Some  naturalists 
believe  that  the  shrill  squeak  which  most  of  us  do 
hear  is  only  one  of  many  notes  of  the  bat,  and  that 
the  various  species  have  different  calls,  like  those  of 
birds,  and  probably  even  have  a  love-song  during 
the  mating  season,  in  late  August  or  early  September, 
which  can  never  be  heard  by  human  ears. 

Most  bats  found  in  the  Eastern  States  are  either 
large  brown  house-bats,  one  of  two  kinds  of  little 
brown  bats,  black  bats,  red  or  tree  bats,  pigmy  bats, 
or,  last,  largest  and  most  beautiful  of  all,  hoary 
bats.  The  big  brown  bat,  or  house-bat,  is  the 
commonest.  This  is  the  last  of  the  bats  to  come  out 
in  the  evening,  for  each  has  a  certain  fixed  hour  when 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  211 

it  begins  to  hunt,  which  varies  only  with  the  light. 
When  the  big  brown  bat  starts,  the  twilight  has 
almost  turned  to  dark. 

The  two  kinds  of  little  brown  bat,  Leconte's  and 
Say's,  cannot  be  told  apart  in  flight.  Both  of  them 
are  much  smaller  than  the  big  brown  bat,  and  the 
ear  of  a  Leconte's  bat  barely  reaches  the  end  of  the 
nose,  while  that  of  a  Say 's  bat  is  considerably  longer. 
All  bats  have  large  ears,  each  of  which  contains  a 
curious  inner  ear  known  as  the  "anti  tragus."  Both 
of  these  little  bats  are  country  bats  and  prefer  caves 
and  hollow  trees  to  houses  and  outbuildings. 

The  black  bat  can  be  told  from  all  other  American 
bats  by  its  deep  black-brown  color  touched  with 
silvery  white.  This  bat  likes  to  hunt  and  hawk  over 
water,  skimming  across  ponds  like  swallows.  Some 
of  the  black-bat  colonies,  or  "batteries,"  are  very 
large,  one  by  actual  count  including  9,640  bats. 

Next  comes  the  Georgia  pigmy  bat,  so  called  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  very  rare  New  York  pigmy 
bat.  This  little  bat  can  be  told  by  its  small  size,  for 
it  is  the  smallest  of  all  of  our  eastern  bats,  by  its 
yellowish  pale  color,  and  especially  by  its  flight, 
which  is  weak  and  fluttering,  like  that  of  a  large 
butterfly. 

The  red  bat  is  a  tree  bat,  spending  the  daytime  in 
the  foliage  of  trees,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  being  found  in 
caves  or  houses.  It  can  be  told  at  a  glance  by  its  red 
color.  It  is  the  greatest  of  all  the  bats  except  the  last, 
the  hoary  bat,  the  largest  of  them  all,  with  a  wing- 
spread  of  from  fifteen  to  seventeen  inches.     This 


212  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

great  bat  soars  high,  well  above  the  tree-tops,  where 
it  can  prey  upon  the  high-flying  great  moths.  It  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful,  as  well  as  the  rarest,  of  our 
bats,  being  found  in  the  East  only  in  the  spring  or 
fall  migration.  It  wears  a  magnificent  furry  coat  as 
beautiful  as  that  of  the  silver  fox,  but,  like  all  of  its 
race,  it  is  cursed  with  the  homeliest  face  ever  worn  by 
an  animal.  It  is  this  hobgoblin  face  which,  in  spite  of 
a  blameless  life  and  useful  habits,  makes  the  flitter- 
mouse,  whatever  its  species,  universally  hated. 

However,  handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  and  the 
boy  who  kills  a  bat  has  killed  one  of  our  most  useful 
animals  and  deserves  to  be  bitten  by  all  the  mos- 
quitoes, and  bumped  by  all  the  June  bugs,  and  crawled 
over  by  all  the  cockroaches,  and  to  have  his  clothes 
corrupted  by  all  the  moths,  that  the  dead  bat  would 
have  eaten  if  it  had  been  allowed  to  live. 

After  I  had  supposedly  finished  this  chapter  I 
was  reading  it  aloud  at  the  dinner-table  to  the  de- 
fenceless Band,  one  Sunday  afternoon  about  two 
o  'clock,  on  a  freezing  day  in  December.  Just  as  I  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  masterpiece,  one  of  my  audience 
suddenly  woke  up  and  said,  "There's  a  bat!"  Sure 
enough,  outside,  in  the  glass-enclosed  porch,  was 
flying  a  large  brown  house-bat.  Back  and  forth  it 
went  through  the  freezing  air,  as  swiftly  as  if  it  were 
summer.  I  was  much  touched  by  this  beautiful 
tribute  to  my  authorship,  and  went  out  and  managed 
to  catch  my  visitor  when  he  alighted.  The  bat  how- 
ever was  ungrateful  enough  to  bite  the  hand  that 
had  praised  him,  and  I  will  end  this  account  by  writ- 


THE   SEVEN  SLEEPERS  213 

ing  of  knowledge  that  a  bat's  tiny  teeth  are  as  sharp 
as  needles  and  that  he  is  always  willing  to  use  them. 

Not  dangerous  like  the  skunk,  or  brave  like  the 
raccoon,   or   big   like   the    bear,    the   least    of    the 
Sleepers  is  the  best-looking  of  them  all.   Shy  and  soli- 
tary, the  gentle  little  jumping  mouse  is  as  dainty  as 
he  looks.  His  fur  is  lead,  overlaid  with  gold  deepening 
to  a  dark  brown  on  the  back,  and  like  the  deer-mouse 
he  wears  a  snowy  silk  waistcoat  and  stockings.    His 
strength  is  in  his  powerful  crooked  hind-legs,  and  his 
length  in  his  silky  tail,  which  occupies  five  of  his 
eight  inches.    Given  one  jump  ahead  of  any  foe  that 
runs,    springs,    flies,   or   crawls,   and   Mr.    Jumping 
Mouse  is  safe.    He  patters  through  the  grass  by  the 
edge  of  thickets  and  weed-patches,  like  any  other 
mouse,  until  alarmed.    Then  with  a  bound  he  shoots 
high  into  the  air,  in  a  leap  that  will  cover  from  two 
to  twelve  feet.   It  is  in  this  that  his  long  tail  plays 
its  part.   In  a  graceful  curve,  with  tip  upturned,  it 
balances  and  guides  him  through  the  air  in  a  jump 
which  will  cover  over  forty  times  his  own  length, 
equivalent  to  a  performance  of  two  hundred  and  forty 
feet  by  a  human  jumper.    The  instant  he  strikes, 
the  jumper  soars  away  again  like  a  bird,  at  right 
angles  to  his  first  jump,  and  zigzags  here  and  there 
through  the  air,  so  fast  and  so  far  as  to  baffle  even  the 
swift  hawk  and  the  dogged  weasel. 

Every  day  Mr.  Jumping  Mouse  washes  and  pol- 
ishes his  immaculate  self,  and  draws  his  long  silky 
tail  through  his  mouth  until  every  hair  shines.   Mrs. 


214  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

Jumping  Mouse  is  a  good  mother,  and  never  deserts 
her  babies.  If  alarmed  while  feeding  them,  she  will 
spring  through  the  air  with  from  three  to  five  of  them 
clinging  to  her  for  dear  life,  and  carry  them  safely 
through  all  her  series  of  lofty  leaps. 

The  first  frost  rings  the  bed-time  bell  for  the  jump- 
ing mouse.  Three  feet  underground  he  builds  a 
round  nest  of  dried  grass,  and  lines  it  with  feathers, 
hair,  and  down.  Then  he  rolls  himself  into  a  round 
bundle,  which  he  ties  up  with  two  wraps  of  his  long 
tail,  and  goes  to  sleep  until  spring.  Of  all  the  Sleepers 
he  is  the  soundest.  Dig  him  up  and  he  shows  no  sign 
of  life;  but  if  brought  in  to  a  fire,  he  wakes  up  and 
becomes  his  own  lively  self  once  more.  Put  him  out 
in  the  cold,  and  he  rolls  up  and  falls  asleep  again. 

One  of  the  Band  who  holds  high  office  is  by 
way  of  being  a  naturalist  instead  of  an  explorer  or 
an  aviator,  as  he  originally  intended.  Last  summer, 
in  a  bit  of  dried-up  marshland  near  the  roadside,  he 
heard  strange  rustlings.  On  investigating,  he  found  a 
family  of  young  jumping  mice  moving  through  the 
grass  and  feeding  on  the  buds  of  alder-bushes.  They 
were  quite  tame,  and  as  they  ran  out  on  the  ends  of 
the  branches,  he  had  a  good  view  of  them  and  finally 
managed  to  catch  one  by  the  end  of  his  long  tail. 
The  mouse  bit  the  boy,  but  did  not  even  draw  blood. 
Afterwards  he  seemed  to  become  tamer,  although 
shaking  continually.  Given  a  bit  of  bread,  he  sat 
up  and  nibbled  it  like  a  little  squirrel;  but  even  as 
he  ate  he  suddenly  had  a  spasm  of  fright  and  died. 
This  death  from  fright  occurs  among  a  number  of 


THE  SEVEN  SLEEPERS  215 

the  more  highly  strung  of  the  mice-folk,  even  when 
they  seem  to  have  become  perfectly  tame.  This 
same  young  naturalist  observed  another  jumping 
mouse  which,  contrary  to  all  the  books,  took  to  the 
water  when  pursued,  and  swam  nearly  as  expertly 
as  a  muskrat. 

So  endeth  the  Chronicle  of  the  Seven  Sleepers. 


XII 
DRAGON'S  BLOOD 

Then  Sigurd  went  his  way  and  roasted  the  heart  of  Fafnir 
on  a  rod.  And  when  he  tasted  the  blood,  straightway  he  wot 
the  speech  of  every  bird  of  the  air. 

It  takes  longer  nowadays.  Yet  the  years  are  well 
spent.  There  is  a  strange  indescribable  happiness 
that  comes  with  the  knowledge  of  the  bird-notes. 
As  for  the  songs  —  they  are  not  only  among  the  joys 
of  life,  but  they  bring  with  them  many  other  happi- 
nesses. Even  as  I  write,  the  memory  of  many  of  them 
comes  back  to  me:  wind-swept  hilltops;  white  sand- 
dunes  against  a  blue,  blue  sea;  singing  rows  of  pine 
trees  marching  miles  and  miles  through  the  barrens; 
jade-green  pools;  crooked  streams  of  smoky -brown 
water;  lonely  islands;  orchid-haunted  marsh-lands; 
far  journeyings  and  good  fellowship  with  others  who 
have  learned  the  Way  —  these  are  but  a  few  of  them. 
Let  me  entreat  you  to  leave  the  narrow  in-door  days 
and  wander  far  afield  before  it  be  too  late. 

Come  sit  beside  the  weary  way 
And  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Ride  with  Aucassin  into  the  greenwood.  There 
perchance,  as  happed  to  him,  you  will  see  the  green 
grass  grow  and  listen  to  the  sweet  birds  sing  and 
hear  some  good  word. 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  217 

To  him  who  will  but  listen  there  are  adventures  in 
bird-songs  anywhere,  any  time,  and  any  season.  It 
was  but  last  winter  that  I  found  myself  again  in  the 
dawn-dusk  facing  a  defiant  hickory,  armed  only  with 
an  axe.  Let  me  recommend  to  every  man  who  is 
worried  about  his  body,  his  soul,  or  his  estate  during 
the  winter  months,  that  he  buy  or  borrow  a  well- 
balanced  axe  and  cut  down  and  cut  up  a  few  trees 
for  fire-wood.  As  he  forces  the  tingling  iced  oxygen 
into  every  cell  of  his  lungs,  he  will  find  that  he  is 
taking  a  new  view  of  life  and  love  and  debt  and  death, 
and  other  perplexing  and  perennial  topics. 

Quite  recently  I  read  a  journal  that  a  young 
minister  kept,  back  in  the  fifties.  One  entry  espe- 
cially appealed  to  me. 

"Decided  this  morning  that  I  was  not  the  right 
man  for  this  church.  Chopped  wood  for  two  hours 
m  Colonel  Hewitt's  wood-lot.  Decided  that  this 
was  the  church  for  me  and  that  I  was  the  man  for 
this  church. " 

On  this  particular  morning,  I  heard  once  more  the 
wild  dawn-song  of  the  Carolina  wren,  full  of  liquid 
bell-like  overtones.  As  I  listened,  my  mind  went  back 
to  another  wren-song.  I  had  been  hunting  for  the 
nest  of  a  yellow  palm  warbler  in  a  little  gully  in  the 
depths  of  a  northern  forest.  The  blood  ran  down  my 
face  from  the  fierce  bites  of  the  black-flies,  and  the 
mosquitoes  stung  like  fire.  Suddenly,  from  the  side  of 
the  tiny  ravine,  began  a  song  full  of  ringing,  glassy 
notes  such  as  one  makes  by  running  a  wet  finger  rap- 
idly on  the  inside  of  a  thin  glass  finger-bowl.  Listen- 


218  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

ing,  I  forgot  that  I  was  wet  and  tired  and  hungry 
and  bitten  and  stung.  For  the  first  time  I  listened 
to  the  song  of  the  winter  wren.  For  years  I  had  met 
this  little  bird  along  the  sides  of  brooks  in  the  winter 
and  running  in  and  out  of  holes  and  under  stones 
like  a  mouse;  but  to-day  to  me  it  was  no  longer  a 
tiny  bird.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  untamed,  unknown 
northern  woods.  It  is  hard  to  make  any  notation  of 
the  song.  It  flowed  like  some  ethereal  stream  filled 
with  little  bubbles  of  music  which  broke  in  glassy 
tinkling  sprays  of  sound  over  the  under-current  of 
the  high  vibrating  melody  itself.  The  song  seemed 
to  have  two  parts.  The  first  ended  in  a  contralto 
phrase,  while  the  second  soared  like  a  fountain  into 
a  spray  of  tinkling  trills.  Through  it  all  ran  a  strange 
unearthly  dancing  lilt,  such  as  the  fairy  songs  must 
have  had,  heard  by  wandering  shepherds  at  the 
edge  of  the  green  fairy  hills.  At  its  very  height  the 
melody  suddenly  ceased,  and  once  again  I  dropped 
back  into  a  workaday,  mosquito-ridden  world,  with 
ten  miles  between  me  and  my  camp. 

On  that  day  I  found  two  of  the  almost  unknown, 
feather-lined  nests  of  the  yellow  palm  warbler,  and 
climbed  up  to  the  jewel-casket  of  a  bay-breasted 
warbler,  and  was  shown  the  cherished  secret  of  a 
Nashville  warbler's  nest  deep  hidden  in  the  sphag- 
num moss  of  a  little  tussock  in  the  middle  of  a  path- 
less morass.  Yet  my  great  adventure  was  the  song  of 
the  winter  wren. 

It  was  under  quite  different  circumstances  that  I 
last  heard  the  best  winter  singer  of  all.    Never  was 


THE  JUNCO  ON  HIS  WATCH  TOWER 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  219 

there  a  more  discouraging  day  for  a  collector  of  bird- 
songs.  The  year  was  dying  of  rheumy  age.  On  the 
trees  still  hung  a  few  dank,  blotched  leaves,  while 
the  sodden  ground  plashed  under  foot  and  a  leaden 
mist  of  rain  covered  everything.  Yet  at  the  edge  of 
the  very  first  field  that  I  started  to  cross,  a  strange 
call  cut  through  the  fog,  and  I  glimpsed  a  large  black- 
and-white  bird  crossing  the  meadow  with  the  dipping 
up-and-down  flight  of  a  woodpecker.  It  was  the  hairy 
woodpecker,  the  big  brother  of  the  more  common 
downy,  and  a  bird  that  usually  loves  the  depths  of 
the  woods.  Hardly  had  it  alighted  on  a  wild-cherry 
tree,  when  an  English  sparrow  flew  up  from  a  nearby 
ash-dump  and  attacked  the  new  comer.  The  harassed 
woodpecker  flew  to  the  next  tree  and  the  next,  but 
was  driven  on  and  away  each  time  by  the  sparrow, 
until  finally,  with  another  rattling  call,  it  flew  back 
to  the  woods  from  whence  it  had  come.  A  moment 
later  a  starling  alighted  on  the  same  tree,  unmolested 
by  its  compatriot. 

I  followed  the  fields  to  a  nearby  patch  of  woods. 
It  is  small  and  bounded  on  all  sides  by  crowded  roads, 
but  at  all  times  of  the  year  I  find  birds  there.  As  I 
reached  the  edge  of  the  trees  white-skirted  juncos 
flew  up  in  front  of  me.  Mingled  with  their  sharp 
notes,  like  the  clicking  of  pebbles,  came  the  gentle 
whisper  of  the  white-throated  sparrow,  and  from  a 
nearby  thicket  one  of  them  gave  its  strange  minor 
song.  For  its  length  I  know  of  no  minor  strain  in 
bird-music  that  is  sweeter.  Like  the  little  silver 
flute-trill  of  the  pink-beaked  field  sparrow,  and  the 


220  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

lovely  contralto  notes  of  the  bluebird  who  from 
mid-sky  calls  down,  "Faraway,  faraway,  faraway," 
the  song  of  the  white-throated  sparrow  is  tantaliz- 
ingly  brief  and  simple  in  its  phrasing.  Up  in  Canada 
the  guides  call  the  bird  the  "widow- woman."  Usu- 
ally its  song,  except  in  the  spring,  is  incomplete  and 
apt  to  flatten  a  little  on  some  of  the  notes;  but  to- 
day it  rang  through  the  rain  as  true  and  compelling 
as  when  it  wakes  me,  from  the  syringa  and  lilac  bushes 
outside  my  sleeping-porch,  some  May  morning. 

Through  the  dripping  boughs  I  pressed  far  into  the 
very  centre  of  the  wood.  In  a  tangle  of  greenbrier 
sounded  a  series  of  sharp  irritating  chips,  and  a  cardi- 
nal, blood-red  against  the  leaden  sky,  perched  himself 
on  a  bough  of  a  hornbeam  sapling.  As  I  watched  him 
sitting  there  in  the  cold  rain,  he  seemed  like  some  bird 
of  the  tropics  which  had  flamed  his  way  north  and 
would  soon  go  back  to  the  blaze  of  sun  and  riot  of 
color  where  he  belonged.  Yet  the  cardinal  grosbeak 
stays  with  us  all  winter,  and  I  have  seen  four  of  the 
vivid  males  at  a  time,  all  crimson  against  the  white 
snow.  To-day  he  looked  down  upon  me,  and  without 
any  warning  suddenly  began  to  sing  his  full  song 
in  a  whisper.  "  Wheepl,  wheepl,  wheepl, "  he  whistled 
with  a  mellow  and  wood-wind  note;  and  again,  a 
full  tone  lower,  "Wheepl,  wheepl,  wheepl."  Then 
he  sang  a  lilting  double-note  song,  "Chu-wee,  chu- 
wee,  chu-wee,"  ending  with  a  ringing  whistle, 
"Whit,  whit,  whit,  teu,  teu,  teu,"  and  then  ran  them 
together,  "Whit-teu,  whit-teu,  whit-teu."  As  his 
lovely  dove-colored  mate  flitted  jealously  through  the 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  221 

thicket,  he  tactfully  and  smackingly  cried,  "Kiss, 
kiss,  kiss,"  and  dived  into  the  bushes  to  join  her. 
Again  and  again  he  ran  through  his  little  repertoire, 
so  low  that  thirty  feet  away  he  could  hardly  be  heard. 
Leaden  clouds  and  dank  mists  might  cover  the  earth, 
but  life  would  always  be  worth  the  living  so  long  as 
one  could  find  snatches  of  jeweled  songs  like  that 
sung  to  me  by  the  cardinal.  As  I  started  homeward 
under  the  dripping  sky,  crimson  against  the  dark 
green  of  a  cedar  tree,  my  friend  called  his  good-bye 
to  me  in  one  last  long  ringing  note. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  rain  stopped,  the  clouds 
rolled  back,  and  in  the  west  the  sky  was  a  mass  of 
flame,  with  pools  of  sapphire-blue  and  rose-red  cloud. 
Above,  in  a  stretch  of  pure  cool  apple-green,  floated 
the  newest  of  new  moons.  As  the  after-glow  ebbed, 
one  by  one  all  the  wondrous  tints  merged  into  a  great 
band  of  amber  that  barred  the  dark  for  long.  Just 
before  it  faded  in  the  last  moments  of  the  twilight, 
there  shuddered  across  the  evening  air  the  sweetest, 
saddest  note  that  can  be  heard  in  all  winter  music. 
It  was  a  tremolo,  wailing  little  cry  that  always  makes 
me  think  of  the  children  the  pyxies  stole,  who  can 
be  heard  now  and  again  in  the  twilight,  or  before 
dawn,  calling,  calling  vainly  for  one  long  gone.  In 
the  dim  light  in  a  nearby  tree,  I  could  see  the  ear- 
tufts  of  the  little  red-brown  screech-owl.  Like  the 
beat  of  unseen  wings,  his  voice  trembled  again  and 
again  through  the  air,  and  answering  him,  I  called 
him  up  to  within  six  feet  of  me.  Around  and  around 
my  head  he  flew  like  a  great  moth,  his  soft  muffled 


%%%  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

wings  making  not  the  faintest  breath  of  sound,  until 
at  last  he  drifted  away  into  the  dark. 

That  night  the  temperature  rose,  until  the  very 
breath  of  spring  seemed  to  be  in  the  air;  and  early 
the  next  morning,  before  even  the  faint  glimmer  of 
the  dawn-dusk  had  shown,  I  was  awakened  by  hear- 
ing a  croon  so  soft  and  sweet  that  it  ran  for  long 
through  my  dreams  without  waking  me.  Again 
and  again  it  sounded,  like  the  singing  ripple  of  a 
trout  brook  or  the  happy  little  cradle-song  that  a 
mother  ruffed  grouse  makes  when  she  broods  her 
leaf-brown  chicks.  I  recognized  the  love-song  of  the 
little  owl,  months  before  its  time  —  a  song  which 
belongs  to  the  nights  when  the  air  is  full  of  spring 
scents  and  hy la-calls. 

Perhaps  the  singer  was  the  same  bird  who  visited 
Sergeant  Henny-Penny  one  Christmas  night.  Dur- 
ing the  day  the  Band  had  taken  a  most  successful 
bird-walk.  We  had  seen  and  heard  some  twenty  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  birds;  heard  the  white-breasted  nut- 
hatch sing  his  spring-song,  "Quee-quee-quee,"  as  a 
Christmas  carol  for  us;  met  a  red  fox  trotting  se- 
dately through  the  snow,  and  altogether  had  a  most 
adventurous  day.  That  evening  I  was  reading  in 
front  of  the  fire  when  from  Sergeant  Henny-Penny's 
room  came  an  S.O.S.  "Fathie,  come  quick,  there's 
a  nangel  flyin'  around  my  room,"  he  called. 

I  hurried,  for  angels  flying  or  sitting  are  rarely 
scored  on  my  bird-lists.  When  I  reached  the  room, 
Henny-Penny  had  burrowed  so  far  under  the  bed- 
clothes that  it  seemed  doubtful  if  he  would  ever 


NO  ADMITTANCE 
Per  Order,  Mr. 


SCREECH  OWL 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  223 

reach  the  surface  again.  When  I  switched  on  the  light, 
at  first  I  could  see  nothing,  and  I  began  to  be  afraid 
that  the  "nangel"  had  escaped  through  the  open 
window.  Finally  on  the  picture-moulding  I  spied 
the  celestial  visitor.  It  was  a  screech  owl  of  the 
red  phase,  —  they  may  be  either  red  or  gray,  —  and 
when  I  came  near  it  snapped  its  beak  fiercely,  to  the 
terror  of  the  Sergeant  under  the  clothes.  With  a 
quick  jump  I  managed  to  catch  it.  At  first  it  puffed 
up  its  feathers  and  pretended  to  be  very  fierce,  but 
at  last  it  snuggled  into  my  hand  and  was  with  diffi- 
culty persuaded  to  fly  out  again  into  the  cold  night. 

Another  singer  of  the  night  is  of  course  the  whip- 
poor-will.  When  I  lived  farther  out  in  the  country 
than  I  do  now,  for  two  successive  years  I  was  awak- 
ened at  two  o  'clock  in  the  morning  by  a  whip-poor- 
will  passing  north  and  singing  in  the  nearby  woods. 
The  third  year  he  broke  all  records  by  alighting  on  my 
lawn  at  sunset  in  late  April.  There,  under  a  pink  dog- 
wood tree  which  stood  like  a  statue  of  spring,  he 
sang  for  ten  minutes.  Only  once  before  have  I  ever 
heard  a  whip-poor-will  sing  in  the  daylight.  Once  at 
high  noon  in  the  pine-barrens,  one  burst  out  so  loud 
and  ringingly  that  the  pine  warbler  stopped  his 
trilling  and  the  prairie  warbler  his  seven  wire-thin 
notes  which  run  up  the  scale.  It  was  as  uncanny  as 
when  the  Lone  Wolf  gave  tongue  to  the  midnight 
hunting  chorus  for  Mowgli,  at  the  edge  of  the 
jungle  by  day. 

Now,  when  I  live  nearer  civilization,  and  alas! 
farther  from  the  birds,  I  have  to  travel  far  to  hear 


224  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

whip-poor-wills.  One  hour  and  eleven  minutes 
from  my  office  in  time,  thirty-seven  miles  in  space, 
but  a  whole  life  away  in  peace  and  happiness  and  rest, 
I  have  a  little  cabin  in  the  heart  of  the  barrens. 
There  in  spring  I  sleep  swinging  in  a  hammock  above 
a  great  bush  of  mountain-laurel,  ghost- white  against 
the  smoky  water  of  the  stream. 

Below  me  in  the  marsh,  where  the  pitcher-plants 
bloom  among  the  sweet  pepper  and  blueberry  bushes, 
is  a  pitch-pine  sapling  bent  almost  into  a  circle. 
Sometimes  my  friends  cut  exploration  paths  through 
the  bush  or,  in  the  winter,  search  for  firewood,  but  no 
one  is  ever  allowed  to  touch  that  bent  tree.  There 
some  spring  night,  as  a  little  breeze,  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  white  azalea  and  creamy  magnolia  blossoms, 
sways  me  back  and  forth,  from  the  bent  tree  showing 
dimly  in  the  moonlight  through  the  tree-trunks, 
the  whip-poor-will  perches  himself,  lengthwise  al- 
ways, and  sings  and  sings.  Through  the  dark  rings 
his  hurried  stressed  song,  with  the  accent  heavy  on 
the  first  syllable.  The  singer  is  always  afraid  that 
some  one  may  stop  him  before  he  finishes,  and  he 
hurries  and  hurries  with  a  little  click  between  the 
triads.  At  exactly  eight  o'clock,  and  again  at  just 
two  in  the  morning,  he  sings  there.  Up  in  the  moun- 
tains, where  we  once  found  the  whip-poor-will's  two 
lustrous  eggs  lying  like  great  spotted  pearls  on  a 
naked  bed  of  leaves,  he  sings  at  eight,  at  ten,  and  at 
three.  Some  people  dislike  the  song.  To  me  the  wild 
lonely  voice  of  the  unseen  singer  pealing  out  in  the 
dark  has  a  strange  fascination. 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  225 

There  are  certain  bird-notes  that  strike  strange 
chords  whose  vibrations  are  lost  in  a  mist  of  dreams. 
I  remember  a  little  runaway  boy,  who  stood  in  a  clo- 
ver field  in  a  gray  twilight  and  heard  the  clanging 
calls  of  wild  geese  shouting  down  from  mid-sky. 
Frightened,  he  ran  home  a  vast  distance  —  at  least 
the  width  of  two  fields.  As  he  ran,  there  seemed  to 
come  back  to  him  the  memory  of  a  forgotten  dream, 
if  it  were  a  dream,  in  which  he  lay  in  another  land, 
on  a  chill  hillside.  Overhead  in  the  darkness  passed 
a  burst  of  triumphant  music,  and  the  strong  singing 
of  voices  not  of  this  earth.  From  that  day  the  trum- 
pet-notes of  the  wild  geese  bring  back  through  the 
fog  of  the  drifting  years  that  same  dream  to  him 
who  heard  them  first  in  that  far-away,  long-ago 
clover  field.  A  few  years  ago  there  was  a  night  of 
April  storm.  Until  midnight  the  house  creaked  and 
rattled  and  clattered  under  a  screaming  gale.  Then 
the  wind  died  down,  and  a  dense  fog  covered  the 
streets  of  the  little  town.  Suddenly  overhead  sounded 
the  clang  and  clamor  of  a  lost  flock  of  geese  that  cir- 
cled and  quartered  over  the  house  back  and  forth 
through  the  mist.  That  night  the  dream  came  back 
so  vividly  that,  even  after  the  dreamer  awoke,  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  cold  dew  of  that  hillside  and  hear 
an  echo  of  the  singing  voices. 

It  was  only  a  few  months  ago  that  this  same 
dreamer  found  himself  on  the  shore  of  Delaware 
Bay,  with  the  three  friends  who  had  gone  adventur- 
ing with  him  for  so  many  happy  years.  In  the 
middle  of  a  maze  of  woods  and  swamps  shrouded  in 


226  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

clouds  of  low-lying  mist,  they  found  at  last  the  nest 
of  the  bald  eagle  for  which  they  were  searching. 
It  was  in  the  top  of  a  towering  sour-gum  tree,  and  the 
great  birds  circled  around,  giving  futile  little  cries 
that  sounded  like  the  squeaking  of  a  slate  pencil. 
As  it  was  too  misty  to  photograph  the  nest  and  the 
birds,  the  party  started  off  exploring  until  the  light 
became  better. 

Following  the  song  of  a  fox  sparrow,  the  dreamer 
became  separated  from  the  others  in  the  mist,  and 
after  plashing  through  half-frozen  morasses,  found 
himself  on  the  barren  shore  of  the  bay  itself.  As  he 
stood  there,  with  the  white  mist  curling  around  him 
like  smoke,  from  the  sea  came  a  clamor  of  voices. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  swept,  until  a  wild  trumpeting 
sounded  not  thirty  feet  above  his  head.  Around 
and  around  the  clanging  chorus  swept,  while,  stare 
as  he  would,  he  could  not  spy  even  a  feather  of  the 
flock  so  close  above  him.  At  the  sound  the  years 
rolled  back.  Once  again  he  was  in  the  clover  field  in 
the  gray  twilight.  Once  again,  on  a  far-away  hillside, 
he  heard  that  other  chorus  of  his  dreams.  For  a 
moment,  in  the  lonely  mist  by  the  sea,  he  had  a 
strange  illusion  that  the  life  of  which  that  cold 
hillside  was  a  memory  was  the  reality,  and  the 
present  the  dream. 

It  takes  five  years  to  understand  Eskimo.  It  takes 
a  long  lifetime  to  learn  bird-language.  At  any  time, 
in  any  place,  the  collector  of  bird-notes  may  hear 
an  unknown  bird  or  a  strange  song  from  a  known 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  <m 

bird.  Wherefore  let  no  ornithologist  vaunt  himself. 
He  may  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the  song  of 
the  purple  finch  and  the  warbling  vireo,  or  the  chest- 
nut-sided warbler,  the  redstart,  and  the  yellow  warb- 
ler, and  then  hear  some  common  bird,  like  the  Mary- 
land yellow-throat,  sing  a  song  which  he  has  never 
heard  before  and  may  never  hear  again;  or  an  oven 
bird,  or  even  a  phcebe,  rise  to  the  ecstasy  of  a  flight- 
song  which  no  more  resembles  their  everyday  meas- 
ure than  water  resembles  wine. 

Early  in  my  experience  as  a  bird-student,  I  learned 
to  walk  humbly.  It  happened  on  this  wise.  I  had 
been  invited  to  spend  my  summer  at  a  Sanitarium 
for  Deserted  Husbands.  Said  retreat  was  main- 
tained by  a  noble-hearted  benefactor  in  a  vast, 
rambling  cool  house,  bordered  on  three  sides  by  dense 
woods.  The  day  of  my  arrival  I  was  approached  by 
one  of  the  older  inmates,  who,  with  false  and  flatter- 
ing tongue,  praised  my  scanty  knowledge  of  bird- 
ways,  and  made  me  promise  to  teach  him  the  different 
bird-songs  as  he  heard  them  from  the  house. 

Early  the  next  morning,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  there 
sounded  a  strange  song.  It  seemed  to  come  from  a 
tree  at  the  other  end  of  the  house  and  possessed  a 
peculiar  rippling,  gurgling  timbre.  A  minute  or  so 
later  my  new  acquaintance  rushed  in  and  seemed 
much  pained  that  I  did  not  know  the  singer.  There- 
after my  life  was  burdened  by  that  song.  Occasion- 
ally it  sounded  in  the  early  morning,  when  I  wanted 
to  sleep  but  was  awakened  by  my  enthusiastic 
disciple.  Another  time  I  would  hear  it  in  the  evening. 


228  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

One  day  it  would  come  from  the  house,  and  again 
from  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Yet,  skulk  and  peer  and 
listen  as  I  would,  I  could  never  locate  the  singer  or 
identify  the  song. 

The  revelation  came  one  Sunday  morning,  as  two 
of  us  were  breakfasting  on  the  terrace  close  to  the 
house.  Suddenly  that  vile  song  began.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  near  the  top  of  a  tree  by  the  farther  end 
of  the  house.  I  rushed  to  the  place,  my  napkin 
flapping  as  I  ran.  By  the  time  I  reached  the  tree,  the 
song  came  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  Back 
I  hastened,  only  to  find  that  the  bird  had  once  more 
flitted  to  the  other  side.  I  hurried  there,  but  again 
that  bird  was  gone,  and  a  moment  later  sang  from 
the  farthest  end  of  the  house.  Three  separate  times 
I  circled  the  place,  with  the  singer  and  the  song  al- 
ways just  ahead  of  me.  It  was  only  when  I  noticed 
that  my  companion  at  breakfast  had  fallen  forward 
on  the  table  overcome  by  emotion,  that  I  began  to 
suspect  the  worse.  I  hid  behind  a  tree  and  waited. 
A  moment  later  I  saw  the  alleged  bird-enthusiast, 
clothed  in  preposterous  pink  pajamas,  and  blowing 
false  and  fluting  notes  on  a  tin  bird-whistle,  the  silly 
kind  that  children  fill  with  water  and  blow  through. 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  live  down  that  bird-song. 

When  I  was  a  boy,  there  were  four  of  us  who  always 
hunted  and  fished  and  tramped  and  explored  together. 
We  never  supposed  that  anything  could  separate 
us.  Yet  the  years  have  blown  us  apart,  and  we 
go    adventuring  together  no  more.    Alone   of  that 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  229 

quartette  I  am  left  to  follow  the  trail  that  seemed  in 
those  days  to  have  no  ending.  The  same  years, 
however,  have  made  me  some  amends.  Once  again 
there  are  four  of  us  who  spend  all  our  holidays  in 
the  open.  We  collect  orchids  and  bird-songs,  and  find 
new  birds  and  nests,  and  quest  far  among  the  wild- 
folk  in  our  search  for  secrets  and  adventures.  Some- 
times we  go  south,  and  become  acquainted  with  blue- 
gray  gnatcatchers  and  prothonotary  warblers  and 
summer  tanagers  and  mocking-birds  and  blue  gros- 
beaks, and  other  birds  which  we  never  see  here. 
Sometimes  we  explore  lonely  islands  hidden  in  a  maze 
of  sand-bars,  and  discover  where  the  terns  and  the 
laughing  gulls  nest;  or  we  find  wonderful  things  wait- 
ing for  us  on  mountain-tops  or  hidden  among 
morasses  and  quaking  bogs. 

Two  years  ago  we  decided  to  follow  Spring  north. 
First  we  welcomed  as  usual  the  spring  migrants  and 
the  spring  flowers  in  April  and  May.  When  the  sky- 
pilgrims  had  passed  on,  and  the  lush  growth  of  sum- 
mer began  to  show,  we  traveled  northwards  to  the 
top  of  Mount  Pocono,  the  highest  mountain  of  our 
state,  and  found  Spring  waiting  for  us  there.  The 
apple  blossoms  were  just  coming  out  and  the  woods 
were  sweet  with  trailing  arbutus.  There  we  found 
the  nests  of  the  yellow-bellied  and  alder  fly-catchers, 
solitary  vireos,  and  black-throated  blue  and  Canada 
and  Blackburnian  warblers.  As  once  more  Summer 
followed  hard  on  our  heels,  we  took  passage  and  trav- 
eled to  a  lonely  camp  in  northern  Canada.  The  sec- 
ond day  of  our  trip  we  overtook  Spring  again,  and 


230  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

were  traveling  through  amethyst  masses  of  rhodora 
and  woods  white  with  the  shad-blow.  At  last  the 
apple  orchards  were  not  yet  in  flower,  and  for  the 
third  time  that  year  we  found  ourselves  among  the 
cherry  blossoms. 

We  never  stopped  until  we  reached  a  lonely  bay 
far  to  the  north.  The  sun  was  westering  well  down 
the  sky  when  at  last  we  crowded  into  a  creaking 
buckboard  for  a  ten-mile  drive.  The  air  was  full  of 
strange  bird-songs.  From  the  fields  came  a  little 
song  that  began  like  a  feeble  song  sparrow  and 
ended  in  a  buzz.  It  was  the  Savannah  sparrow, 
which  I  had  seen  every  year  in  migration,  but  had 
never  before  heard  sing.  At  the  first  bend  in  the 
road  we  came  to  a  bit  of  marshland  so  full  of  unknown 
bird-notes  that  we  stopped  to  explore.  From  the 
edge  of  the  sphagnum  bog  came  a  loud  explosive 
song  —  "  Chip,  chip,  chippy,  chippy,  chippy,  chippy ! " 
The  singer  was  a  greenish-colored  bird,  light  under- 
neath, with  a  white  line  through  the  eye,  and  looked 
much  like  a  red-eyed  vireo  except  that  it  had  a  warb- 
ler beak,  the  which  it  opened  to  a  surprising  width 
as  it  sang.  It  was  none  other  than  the  Tennessee 
warbler,  so  rare  a  bird  in  my  part  of  the  world  that 
even  to  see  one  in  migration  was  then  an  event. 
Here  it  was  one  of  the  commonest  birds  of  that 
whole  region. 

Then  I  stalked  a  strange  vireo-song,  something 
like  the  monotonous  notes  of  the  red-eyed  vireo, 
but  softer  and  with  a  different  cadence.  I  finally 
found  the  singer  in  a  little  thicket,  and  studied  it 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  231 

for  some  ten  minutes  not  six  feet  away.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  had  seen  and  heard  the  smallest 
and  rarest  of  all  the  six  vireos,  the  Philadelphia,  so 
named  because  it  is  never  by  any  chance  found  in 
Philadelphia.  Its  tininess  and  the  pale  yellow  upper 
breast  shading  into  white  were  noticeable  field-marks. 
To  me  it  seemed  a  tame,  dear,  beautiful  little  bird. 

Just  at  starlight  we  reached  the  camp,  and  I  fell 
asleep  to  the  weird  notes  of  unknown  water-birds 
passing  down  the  river  through  the  darkness. 
Followed  a  week  of  unalloyed  happiness.  Each  day, 
from  before  dawn  until  long  after  dark,  we  met 
strange  birds  and  found  new  nests  and  listened  to 
unknown  bird-songs.  One  morning  we  heard  a  loud 
yap  from  a  dead  maple-stub.  On  its  side  grew  what 
seemed  to  be  an  orange-colored  fungus.  As  we  came 
nearer,  it  proved  to  be  the  head  of  a  male  Arctic 
three-toed  woodpecker,  who  wears  an  orange  patch 
on  his  forehead  and  shares  with  his  undecorated 
spouse  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  incubation.  As  we 
came  nearer,  he  flew  out  of  the  nest,  showing  his  jet- 
black  back  and  white  throat,  and  fed  unconcernedly 
up  and  down  the  tree,  even  when  we  climbed  to  where 
we  could  look  down  at  the  five  ivory-white  eggs  he 
had  been  brooding. 

Later  on  we  were  to  learn  how  favored  above  all 
other  ornithologists  we  had  been,  in  that  within  one 
short  week  we  had  found  such  almost  unknown  nests 
as  those  of  the  Arctic  three-toed  woodpecker,  the 
yellow  palm,  the  bay-breasted,  and  the  Tennessee 
warbler.    We  learned  the  jingling  little  song  of  the 


232  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

yellow  palm  warbler,  who  has  a  maroon-colored  head, 
a  yellow  breast,  and  twitches  his  tail  like  a  water 
thrush.  Another  new  song  was  the  "  Swee,  swee,  swee  " 
of  the  bay-breasted  warbler,  who  wears  a  rich  sombre 
suit  of  black  and  bay.  Over  on  the  shore  we  heard 
the  plaintive  piping  of  the  brownish -gray -and- 
white  piping  plover,  who  ran  ahead  of  us  and  was 
hard  to  see  against  the  sand.  Right  beside  my  foot 
I  found  one  of  the  nests,  a  little  hollow  in  the  warm 
sand,  lined  with  broken  shells,  containing  four  eggs, 
the  color  of  wet  sand  all  spotted  with  black  and  gray. 
All  through  the  woods  we  heard  a  strange  wild, 
ringing  song  much  like  that  of  the  Carolina  wren. 
"  Chick-a-ree,  chick-a-ree,  chick-a-ree,  chick"  it 
sounded.  Then  between  the  songs  the  bird  sang 
another  like  a  rippling  laugh,  and  then  for  variety 
had  a  note  which  went  "Chu,  chu,  chu"  like  a  fish- 
hawk.  It  was  some  time  before  we  found  that  these 
three  songs  all  came  from  the  same  bird,  and  it  was 
much  longer  before  we  learned  the  singer's  name. 
For  days  and  days  we  searched  the  woods  without  a 
glimpse  of  him.  We  found  at  last  that  he  was  none 
other  than  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet,  that  tiny 
bird  with  a  concealed  patch  of  flame-colored  feathers 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  who  sings  so  brilliantly  as  he 
passes  through  the  Eastern  states  in  the  spring. 
Not  once  during  that  week  did  we  hear  the  intricate 
warble  which  is  the  kinglet 's  spring  song.  Evidently 
this  talented  performer  has  a  different  repertoire  for 
his  home  engagement  from  that  which  he  uses  while 
on  the  road. 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  233 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  of  that  week  I 
heard  in  the  middle  of  a  marsh,  up  to  my  knees  in 
muck,  water,  and  sphagnum  moss.  Around  me  grew 
wild  callas,  with  their  single  curved  dead-white 
petals  and  pussy-toes,  grasses  topped  with  what 
looked  like  little  dabs  of  warm  brown  fur.  I  was 
painstakingly  searching  through  the  wet  moss  and 
tangled  reeds  for  the  little  hidden  jewel-caskets  of 
the  yellow-bellied  flycatcher,  Lincoln  finch,  Wilson, 
Tennessee,  and  yellow  palm  warblers.  I  had  just 
found  my  fourth  yellow  palm  warbler's  nest,  all  lined 
with  feathers,  and  with  its  four  eggs  like  flecked 
pink  pearls,  the  nest  itself  so  cunningly  concealed 
in  a  mass  of  moss  and  marsh-grass  that  the  discovery 
of  each  one  seemed  a  miracle  that  would  never 
happen  again. 

Suddenly,  out  of  a  corner  of  my  eye,  I  caught 
sight  of  a  tiny  movement  under  the  drooping  boughs 
of  a  little  spruce  half  hidden  in  a  tangle  of  moss. 
There  crouched  a  little  brown  rabbit,  not  even  half- 
grown,  but  yet  old  enough  to  have  learned  that 
maxim  of  the  rabbit-folk  —  when  in  danger  sit  still ! 
Not  a  muscle  of  his  taut  little  body  quivered  even 
when  I  touched  him,  save  only  his  soft  brown  nose. 
That  was  covered  with  mosquitoes,  and  even  to  save 
his  life  Bunny  could  not  keep  from  wrinkling  it. 
It  was  this  tiny  movement  that  had  betrayed  him. 
I  brushed  away  the  mosquitoes  and  was  watching 
him  hop  away  gratefully  to  another  cover,  when 
down  from  mid-sky  came  a  rippling  whinnying 
note  as  if  from  some  far-away  seolian  harp.     As  I 


234  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

looked,  a  speck  showed  against  the  blue,  which 
grew  larger  and  larger,  and  into  sight  volplaned  a 
Wilson  snipe,  the  driven  air  whining  and  beating 
against  its  wings  in  little  waves  of  music,  and  we  had 
added  to  our  collection  of  bird-music  the  famous 
wing-song  of  the  Wilson  snipe,  even  rarer  than  the 
strange  flight-song  of  the  woodcock. 

A  little  later  one  of  my  friends  found  our  first 
olive-backed  thrush's  nest,  lined  with  porcupine- 
hair  and  black  rootlets,  and  containing  blue  eggs 
blotched  with  brown.  Just  beyond  the  nest  I  heard 
what  I  thought  was  a  gold-finch  singing  "Per- 
chickery,  per-chickery. "  The  song  was  so  loud  that 
I  stopped  to  investigate,  and  to  my  delight  found 
that  the  singer  was  a  pine  grosbeak,  all  rose-red 
against  a  dark  green  spruce.  All  around  us  magnifi- 
cent olive-sided  flycatchers  shouted  from  their  tree- 
tops,  "Hip!  three  cheers!  Hip!  three  cheers!"  and 
we  heard  the  listless  song  of  the  beautiful  Cape  May 
warbler,  with  its  yellow  and  black  under-parts  and 
orange-brown  eye-patch  and  black  crown.  "Zee, 
zee,  zee,  zip,"  it  sang,  something  like  the  song  of 
the  blackpoll  warbler,  but  lacking  the  high,  glassy, 
crystalline  notes  of  that  white-cheeked  bird. 

I  was  responsible  for  the  last  bird-song  which  ap- 
pears on  the  lists  of  my  three  friends  —  but  not  on 
mine.  We  were  to  start  back  for  civilization  the  next 
morning,  and  I  was  walking  along  the  river-bank  in 
the  late  twilight,  while  my  more  industrious  and 
scientific  companions  were  writing  up  their  notes 
and  compiling  lists  of  everything  seen  and  heard  on 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  235 

our  trip.  Through  the  windows  of  the  gun-room  I 
could  see  their  learned  backs  as  they  bent  over  their 
compilations.  Suddenly  the  eerie  little  wail  of  a 
screech  owl  floated  up  from  the  river-bank.  Curiously 
enough,  it  came  from  the  very  tree  behind  which 
I  was  crouching.  Instantly  I  saw  three  backs 
straighten  and  three  heads  peer  excitedly  out  into 
the  darkness.  When  I  at  last  strolled  in  half  an  hour 
later,  they  told  me  excitedly  that  they  had  scored  the 
first  screech  owl  ever  heard  in  that  particular  part  of 
Canada.  I  never  told  them.  It  is  not  safe  to  trifle 
with  the  feelings  of  a  scientific  ornithologist.  Un- 
doubtedly my  reticence  in  regard  to  that  particular 
bird-song  is  all  that  has  saved  me  from  occupying  a 
lonely  grave  in  upper  Canada. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  singers,  the  thrush-folk  —  what 
shall  I  say  of  them?  of  the  veery,  with  its  magic 
notes;  of  the  hermit  thrush  whose  song  opens  the 
portals  of  another  world;  of  the  dear  wood  thrush 
who  sings  at  our  door.  While  these  three  voices  are 
left  in  the  world,  there  are  recurrent  joys  that  noth- 
ing can  take  from  us. 

It  was  the  veery  song  that  I  learned  first.  More 
years  ago  than  I  like  to  remember,  I  walked  at  sun- 
rise by  a  thicket,  listening  to  bird-songs  and  wonder- 
ing whether  there  was  any  way  by  which  I  might 
come  to  learn  the  names  of  the  singers.  One  song 
rippled  out  of  that  thicket  that  thrilled  me  with  its 
strange  unearthly  harp-chords.  "Ta-wheela,  ta- 
wheela,  ta-wheela,"  it  ran  weirdly  down  the  scale, 


236  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

and  strangely  enough,  was  at  its  best  at  a  distance 
and  in  the  dusk  or  the  early  moonlight.  I  was  to 
learn  later  that  the  singer  was  the  veery  or  Wilson 
thrush.  That  was  many  years  ago,  but  I  have  loved 
the  bird  from  that  day.  Once  I  found  its  nest  set  in 
the  midst  of  a  dark  rhododendron  swamp;  and  as  the 
mother  bird  slipped  like  a  tawny  shadow  from  the 
wondrous  blue  eggs  gleaming  in  the  dusk,  from 
nearby  vibrated  the  whirling  ringing  notes  of  its 
mate.  Again,  on  a  tussock  in  Wolf  Island  Marsh  I 
found  another;  and  as  both  birds  fluttered  around 
me  with  the  alarm  note,  "Pheu,  pheu,"  the  father 
bird  whispered  a  strain  of  his  song,  and  it  was  as  if 
the  wind  had  rippled  the  music  from  the  waving 
marsh-grasses. 

In  the  dawn-dusk  on  the  top  of  Mount  Pocono  I 
have  listened  to  them  singing  in  the  rain,  and  their 
song  was  as  dreamy  sweet  as  the  tinkling  of  the 
spring  shower.  The  veery  song  is  at  its  best  by 
moonlight.  I  remember  one  late  May  twilight  com- 
ing down  to  the  round  green  circle  of  an  old  charcoal- 
pit,  by  the  side  of  a  little  lake  set  deep  in  the  hills 
and  fringed  with  the  tender  green  of  the  opening 
leaves.  That  day  I  had  climbed  Kent  Mountain, 
and  seen  my  first  eagle,  and  visited  a  rattlesnake  den, 
and  found  a  dozen  or  so  nests,  and  walked  many 
dusty  miles.  It  was  nearly  dark  as  I  slipped  off  my 
clothes  and  swam  through  the  motionless  water. 
The  still  air  was  sweet  with  little  elusive  waves  of 
perfume  from  the  blossoms  of  the  wild  grape.  Over 
the  edge  of  Pond  Hill  the  golden  rim  of  a  full  moon 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  237 

made  the  faint  green  tracery  of  the  opening  leaves 
all  show  in  a  mist  of  soft  moonlight.  As  I  reached 
the  centre  of  the  lake,  from  both  shores  a  veery 
chorus  began.  The  hermit  thrush  will  not  sing  after 
eight,  but  the  veery  sings  well  into  the  dark,  if  only 
the  moon  will  shine.  That  night,  as  from  the  hidden 
springs  of  the  lake  the  heart-blood  of  the  hills  pulsed 
against  my  tired  body,  the  veery  songs  drifted  across 
the  water,  all  woven  with  moonshine  and  fragrance, 
until  it  seemed  as  if  the  moonlight  and  the  perfume, 
the  coolness  and  the  song  were  all  one. 

Some  April  evening  between  cherry-blow  and 
apple-blossom  the  wood  thrush  comes  back.  I  first 
hear  his  organ-notes  from  the  beech  tree  at  the  foot 
of  Violet  Hill.  Down  from  my  house  beside  the 
white  oak  I  make  haste  to  meet  him.  In  1918,  he 
came  to  me  on  May  3;  in  1917  on  April  27;  and  in 
1916  on  April  30.  He  seems  always  glad  to  see  me, 
yet  with  certain  reserves  and  withdrawings  quite 
different  from  the  robins,  who  chirp  unrestrainedly 
at  one's  very  feet.  His  well-fitting  coat  of  wood- 
brown  and  soft  white,  dusked  and  dotted  with  black, 
accord  with  the  natural  dignity  of  the  bird.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  be  reserved  in  a  red  waistcoat. 
Some  of  my  earliest  and  happiest  bird-memories  are 
of  this  sweet  singer. 

The  wood  thrush  has  a  habit  of  marking  his  nest 
with  some  patch  or  shred  of  white,  perhaps  so  that 
when  he  comes  back  from  his  twilight  song  he  may 
find  it  the  more  readily.  Usually  the  mark  is  a  bit 
of  paper,  or  a  scrap  of  cloth,  on  which  the  nest  is 


238  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

set.  Last  winter  I  was  walking  across  a  frozen 
marsh  where  in  late  summer  the  blue  blind  gentian 
hides.  The  long  tow-colored  grass  of  the  tussocks 
streamed  out  before  a  stinging  wind  which  howled 
at  me  like  a  wolf.  I  crept  through  thickets  to  the 
centre  of  a  little  wood,  until  I  was  safe  from  its  fierce 
fingers  among  the  close-set  tree- trunks.  There  I 
found  the  last-year's  nest  of  a  wood  thrush  built  on 
a  bit  of  bleached  newspaper.  Pulling  out  the  paper, 
I  read  on  it  in  weather-faded  letters,  "Votes  for 
Women!"  There  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that 
the  head  of  that  house  was  a  thrushigist.  That  is 
probably  the  reason  too  why  Father  Thrush  takes 
his  turn  on  the  eggs. 

Once  in  the  depths  of  a  swamp  in  the  Pocono 
Mountains  I  was  hunting  for  the  nests  of  the  northern 
water  thrush,  which  is  a  wood-warbler  and  not  a 
thrush  at  all.  That  temperamental  bird  always 
chooses  peculiarly  disagreeable  morasses  for  his 
home.  In  the  roots  of  an  overturned  tree  by  the  side 
of  the  deepest  and  most  stagnant  pool  that  he  can 
conveniently  find,  his  nest  is  built,  unlike  his  twin- 
brother,  the  Louisiana  water  thrush,  who  chooses 
the  bank  of  some  lonely  stream.  On  that  day,  while 
ploughing  through  mud  and  water  and  mosquitoes, 
I  came  upon  a  wood  thrush's  nest  beautifully  lined 
with  dry  green  moss,  with  a  scrap  of  snowy  birch- 
bark  for  its  marker. 

The  song  of  the  wood  thrush  is  a  strain  of  wood- 
wind notes,  few  in  number,  but  inexpressibly  true, 
mellow,  and  assuaging.     "Cool  bars  of  melody  — 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  239 

the  liquid  coolness  of  a  deep  spring,"  is  how  they 
sounded  to  Thoreau.  "Air  — o  — e,  air-o-u,"  with 
a  rising  inflection  on  the  "e"  and  a  falling  cadence 
on  the  "u,"  is  perhaps  an  accurate  phrasing  of  the 
notes.  Many  of  our  singers  give  a  more  elaborate 
performance.  The  brown  thrasher,  that  grand-opera 
singer  who  loves  a  tree-top  and  an  audience,  has  a 
more  brilliant  song.  Yet  there  are  few  listeners  who 
will  prefer  his  florid,  conscious  style  to  the  simple, 
appealing  notes  of  the  wood  thrush.  Although  his  is 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  strain  in  our  everyday 
chorus,  to  me  the  wood  thrush  does  not  rank  with 
either  the  veery  or  the  hermit.  His  song  lacks  the 
veery's  magic  and  the  ethereal  quality  of  the  hermit, 
and  is  marred  by  occasional  grating  bass-notes. 

My  own  favorite  I  have  saved  until  the  very  last. 
There  is  an  unmatchable  melody  in  the  song  of  the 
hermit  thrush  found  in  that  of  no  other  bird.  The 
olive-backed  thrush  has  a  hurried  unrestful  song,  a 
combination  of  the  notes  of  the  wood  thrush  and 
the  veery.  I  have  never  heard  that  mountain-top 
singer,  the  Bicknell  thrush,  or  him  of  the  far  North, 
the  gray-cheeked,  or  the  varied  thrush  of  the  West,' 
but  from  the  description  of  their  songs  I  doubt  if 
any  of  them  possess  the  qualities  of  the  hermit. 

As  I  write,  across  the  ice-bound  months  comes  the 
memory  of  that  spring  twilight  when  I  last  heard  the 
hermit  thrush  sing.  I  was  leaning  against  the  gnarled 
trunk  of  a  great  beech,  between  two  buttressed  roots. 
Overhead  was  a  green  mist  of  unfolding  leaves,  and 
the  silver  and  gray  light  slowly  faded  between  the 


240  EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 

bare  white  boles  of  the  wood.  A  few  creaking  grackles 
rowed  through  the  sky,  and  in  the  distance  crows 
cawed  on  their  way  to  some  secret  roost.  Down 
through  the  air  fell  the  alto  sky-call  of  the  blue- 
birds, and  robins  flocking  for  the  night  whispered 
greetings  to  each  other.  Below  rne  the  brook  was 
full  of  voices.  It  tinkled  and  gurgled,  and  around 
the  bend  at  intervals  sounded  a  murmur  so  human 
that  at  first  I  thought  some  other  wanderer  had 
discovered  my  refuge.  It  was  only,  however,  the 
mysterious  babble  that  always  sounds  at  intervals 
when  a  brook  sings  to  a  human.  It  was  as  if  the  water 
were  trying  to  speak  the  listener 's  language,  and  had 
learned  the  tones  but  not  the  words.  Now  and  again 
the  wind  sounded  in  the  valley  below;  then  passed 
overhead  with  a  vast  hollow  roar,  so  high  that  the 
spice-bush  thicket  which  hid  me  hardly  swayed. 

I  leaned  back  against  the  vast  thews  and  ridged 
muscles  of  the  beech,  one  of  the  generations  upon 
generations  of  men  who  pass  like  dreams  under  its 
vast  branches.  One  of  my  play-time  fancies  in  the 
woods  is  to  hark  back  a  hundred,  two  hundred, 
three  hundred  years,  and  try  to  picture  what  trees 
and  animals  and  men  I  might  have  met  there  then. 
Another  is  to  choose  the  tree  on  which  my  life-years 
are  to  depend.  Give  up  the  human  probabilities  of 
life,  and  live  as  long  or  as  short  as  the  tree  of  my 
choice.  Of  course  it  would  be  a  lottery.  The  tree 
might  die,  or  be  cut  down,  the  year  after  I  had  made 
my  bargain;  and  I  used  to  plan  how  I  would  secure 
and  guard  the  bit  of  woodland  where  my  life-tree 


DRAGON'S  BLOOD  241 

lived.  Of  all  those  that  I  met,  this  particular  beech 
with  the  centuries  behind  it  and  the  centuries  yet 
to  come,  was  my  special  choice,  for  the  beech  is  the 
slowest  growing  of  all  our  trees.  This  one  towered 
high  overhead,  while  its  roots  plunged  down  deep 
into  the  living  waters  and  its  vast  girth  seemed  as  if 
nothing  could  shake  it. 

That  evening,  as  I  lay  against  it  and  bargained  for 
a  share  of  its  years,  I  thought  that  I  felt  the  vast 
trunk  move  as  if  its  life  reached  out  to  mine.    Life 
is  given  to  the  tree  and  to  the  mammal.    Why  may 
they  not  meet  on  some  common  plane?    Some  one 
some  day,  will  learn  the  secret  of  that  meeting-place! 
So   I   dreamed,    when   suddenly   in   the   twilight 
beyond  my  thicket  a  song  began.    It  started  with  a 
series  of  cool,  clear,  round  notes,  like  those  of  the 
wood  thrush  but  with  a  wilder  timbre.    In  the  world 
where  that  singer  dwells,  there  is  no  fret  and  fever 
of  life  and  strife  of  tongues.    On  and  on  the  song 
flowed,  cool  and  clear.    Then  the  strain  changed. 
Up  and  up  with  glorious  sweeps  the  golden  voice 
soared.    It  was  as  if  the  wood  itself  were  speaking. 
There  was  in  it  youth  and  hope  and  spring  and 
glories  of  dawns  and  sunsets  and  moonlight  and  the 
sound  of  the  wind  from  far  away.    Again  the  world 
was  young  and  unfallen,  nor  had  the  gates  of  Heaven 
closed.    All  the  long-lost  dreams  of  youth  came  true 
—  while  the  hermit  thrush  sang. 


'3ERTY 
N.  C 


McGrath-Sherrill  Press 
graphic  arts  bldg. 

BOSTON 


North  Carolina  State  University  Libraries 


EVERYDAY  ADVENTURES 


S02775241    D 


